


Far Afield

by orphan_account



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Bottom Peter Parker, Depression, Don't read unless you've seen FFH, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Isolation, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Or just don't care about that sort of stuff, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Spoilers, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Sex, Whump, With Great Power Comes Great Responsibility
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-06-25 11:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 37
Words: 45,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19744612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After the events of Far From Home, the freakiest summer of Peter's life continues.





	1. Home Sweet Home

**Author's Note:**

> Readers, ye be warned: there's not going to be any explosive, action packed plot to this. Whatever "this" turns out to be. The plan is to write a series of brief, slice-of-life vignettes focusing on the characters and their states of mind.
> 
> UPDATE: Evidently there is some sort of plot to this now. That being said, it is very psychological, more of a character study.

Peter slouches against the railing on the front porch of the cabin with his arms folded over his chest. His passport and Social Security card have been destroyed, as have May’s Social Security, credit and debit cards, and bank accounts. Their very identities have basically been erased.

“This is only temporary, sweetie,” Aunt May assures him. “Happy says we need to lay low for awhile. Just until things settle down. So a few months, maybe a year, tops.”

“A year? A **year**?!” Peter’s eyes widen. He presses a hand to his forehead and slowly drags it down his face. “Does he think it will take that long?”

“He didn't say that, exactly. Not in so many words.” She tousles Peter’s hair and kisses his cheek. “Ready to check out our new place?”

“Whatever.” May scowls and thumps him on the side of the head.

“Ow! What’d you do that for?” Peter whines.

“Hush,” May orders. “I’ve had just about enough of your crap for one day.” 

She searches through her purse and takes out a small brass key outlined with a red rubber band.

She turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open. The hinges creak. 

May uses the light from her cell phone to find the single light bulb dangling from the ceiling. 

She pulls the chain. In the dim illumination, they take stock of the furnishings of their new residence. 

There is a single bed against the back wall. There is also a loveseat, a gas range, and a mini fridge.

“This isn’t too bad,” May says. She sounds like she’s trying to convince herself more than Peter. “It’ll take some getting used to, but it’ll do.”

She slowly walks inside the cabin and sits down on the loveseat. Seeing him hesitate, she beckons Peter to follow her. 

He does, sitting down heavily beside her.

The loveseat is designed in a tacky plaid style meant to imitate a kilt. It’s mostly red, with small black squares and bright yellow lines. It matches the comforter on the bed.

“When’s the last time they hid someone here?” Peter wonders out loud. “I bet they haven’t washed the sheets since then.”

“Happy didn’t go into details, but he implied that one of the Avengers stayed here for awhile after the Blip.” May smiles at Peter’s eager expression.

“And you’re right, they didn’t wash the sheets. They didn’t have to; these are brand new. I had Happy order them online.”

Peter frowns and rolls his eyes. “I might have known. Even though we’ll never see anyone here besides Happy, you still want to fit in with the locals.”

“I resent that. Not everybody in Scotland walks around wearing a kilt. I just happen to think the red tartan pattern is beautiful. Besides, I’m honoring our ancestors this way.”

“Your ancestors, maybe.” Peter laughs and slings an arm around his aunt’s shoulder. “Don’t forget, I did a family tree project in ninth grade. I traced the Parkers back ten generations - to England. I don’t know exactly where your folks are from.”

“Well, since you say _exactly_ …” For the next 10 minutes, Aunt May relates in vivid detail the exploits of the Reilly family. Peter nods and occasionally mutters “really” to express a feigned interest.

The gist is that her 6x great-grandfather, a peat cutter from the Isle of Lewis in Scotland, immigrated to New York in the 18th century. He worked as an indentured servant for seven years, then married and began his own tobacco farm...

“And the Reilly family has been in New York ever since. That’s about as long as the Parkers have been here, isn’t it?”

“Um, yeah.” Peter yawns and rubs his eyes. He finds it fascinating to learn the ins and outs of how his family - whether related by blood or, in this case, marriage - came to be in the United States.

“How did you find all of that out?” he asks. “Did you do an ancestry kit and just not tell me ‘til now?”

“No, do you have any idea how much something like that costs? Do you remember those nice girls who came by the apartment a lot a few years ago?”

“Oh yeah, the Mormon missionaries. They helped you trace your family tree?”

“Yep. They had access to all kinds of records. They helped me with it for a few months, even though I told them outright I wasn’t gonna join.”

“Ah, but there was always a chance. They kept coming around, and they were always really nice to me. They gave me a lot of booklets and showed me a few videos. They even gave me a Bible.”

“Oh, yeah?” Aunt May’s hold tightens on Peter’s shoulder. “What else did they give you?”

“Nothing, I promise. Don’t worry, Aunt May. As nice as they were to me, they never convinced me to believe any of that woo-woo stuff.”

“ _Woo-woo_?” May’s brow furrows. Her lips form a thin, tight line. “What exactly are you saying, Peter?”

Realizing he’s skating on thin ice, Peter backpedals. 

“Don’t worry, Aunt May. I’m still a believer. I still go to Mass twice a year and take the Eucharist, same as you. I recite the Creed with everybody else. I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”

“Uh-huh. Good boy. I know your uncle was a little more lenient than me when it came to church. But, it’s like I always told him, I’m not having a little heathen in my house.”

Peter scoffs. “No worries, May. You passed on the faith of our fathers well.”

He waits for her to reply. He expects she’ll say something like, “What a relief, I’ve done my job, then,” or something similar.

He’s not too surprised when she doesn’t say anything. She’s fallen asleep, her head nestled on his shoulder. Peter feels a momentary pang of guilt for being so petulant.

She’s given up her whole life, too. Peter fights his fatigue and picks his aunt up. He holds her like a baby and carries her across the cabin to lay her down on the bed.

He pulls the chain, casting the room into darkness. 

He sprawls out across the loveseat and folds his hands under his chin. “G’night, Aunt May,” he murmurs drowsily. “I love you.”


	2. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony comforts Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "As I find truth where I found it times before  
> As I search for your hope  
> I'm finding so much more  
> And I try to be more like you  
> And I deny myself to prove my heart is true."
> 
> \- 12 Stones

When Peter opens his eyes, he knows he must be dreaming.

“Oh goody, you’re awake. I was starting to wonder if you were in a coma, or something.”

Peter rubs his eyes and shakes his head wildly. When the wave of nausea passes, he sees that Tony is still there.

He’s sitting on top of the mini fridge, looking around the cabin. He grimaces, hands on his knees. 

“Nice digs,” he comments dryly. “It kind of reminds me of my dad’s old summer cabin in Mendocino. Except, you know, it was a little bigger. And it had chairs and stuff.”

Peter snorts. He covers his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh.

“It’s nice to see you too, Mr. Stark. Y-you don’t have to sit there, you know. You can come sit beside me.”

Peter sits up and pats the loveseat. “This isn’t the most comfortable couch, but I’m sure it’s a heck of a lot better than that fridge.”

Tony carefully slides off the top of the mini fridge. He sits down on the loveseat, and draws his legs up under him.

“Alright, Peter. Now that you’ve shaken all the spiders out of your hair, turn and face me like a man.”

“OK...” Peter turns toward Tony and crosses his legs under his knees. For a few moments, they simply stare at each other.

“So,” Tony says. “That little brown-noser _Beck_ exposed your secret to the whole world. What a mensch.”

He practically spits the name out of his mouth like he tastes something disgusting.

“Yeah,” Peter says dully. “He pretty much ruined my life. Mine, and everybody else’s in my life.”

“Wrong answer.” Tony bops the top of Peter’s head playfully. “Try again.”

“Try again? I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Stark. You didn’t even ask me a question.”

“Sure I did, kid. I just asked it in such a subtle way you must have missed it.”

“Can you maybe come right out and ask me? In plain English?”

Tony sighs in long-suffering resignation.

“How rude! You’re lucky I like you. So, now that the cat’s out of the bag, what are you going to do? What’s the plan?”

“I guess I’m going to stay here with Aunt May. I don’t know for how long. According to Happy, it could be up to a year.”

“A year?” Tony’s eyes widen. “Are you sure you can last a year in this place? Speaking of which, what is this place? Where are we?”

“S-Scotland, I think.” Peter can’t hide the tremor in his voice. “Somewhere in the Northern Isles...”

“Ah, nice place. I went to Shetland once, in the mid-90’s. Nice place to go if you want to be left alone.” 

Tony doesn’t acknowledge Peter’s tears right away.

He waits until the boy’s cheeks flush, until tears trickle from his eyes. A big gob of snot shoots from Peter’s nostrils. 

He takes a deep, shuddering breath. It’s enough. 

Tony wraps his arms around Peter and pulls him toward him. Peter’s snot and tears smear Tony’s robe, the ugly old brown one that belonged to his dad.

“There, there,” Tony murmurs soothingly. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be alright.”

Peter blubbers incoherently, his face pressed against Tony’s chest.

“What’s that?” Tony asks. “I don’t have super hearing, you know. I don’t have any superpowers, period. Unless you count my superior intellect.”

Peter laughs hysterically. He sobs and shakes, jostling Tony.

“I just... _I miss you_. So much. Just when I thought I had a handle on everything, my life spiraled out of control. Again. But you’re not here to help me through it this time.”

Tony patted Peter’s back. He brought his hand up to hold the back of his neck.

“I’m here for you. I’ll always be here for you, Peter. Whenever you need me.”

“I want you here. I want to believe you’re really here with me.” 

“Hey.” Tony leans back to look at Peter’s face. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks pink and puffy from crying. 

He didn’t even cry this much when he clung to Tony, horrified, moments before dissolving.

Tony scrapes his knuckles across Peter’s cheek. It’s meant to keep the kid grounded, but Tony doesn’t know his own strength.

“Ow.” Peter rubs his stinging cheek. He’s glad it hurts a little. He hopes it’ll leave a mark.

“Sorry, I think.” Tony takes Peter’s hand and kisses his palm. “There, now you can press your palm to your cheek. It’ll be like the same thing. I never was very good at this touchy-feely stuff.”

Peter laughs again, a soft croak. “I don’t know about that, Mr. Stark. You always make me feel better.”

“Well, that’s a relief. You know, it may be a generational thing, but I was discouraged from ever showing emotion. You Millennials are a lot more open about that stuff.”

Peter sniffles and wipes his nose with his sleeve.

“Anyway,” Tony continues, “what I’m trying to say is, I know how you feel. It’s hard to lose somebody you love. It’s one of the worst experiences in the world. As hard as it is, you have to keep going on. I’m here for you, buddy.”

And he is. Tony stays with Peter all through the night, until Aunt May gently shakes him awake.


	3. A Grief Observed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy stops by. Peter grieves.

Early the next afternoon, Happy stops by. 

He stocks the mini fridge with cans of soda, a few bottles of water, and hot sauce. He fills the cupboard with cans of soup, packs of ramen, crackers, and granola bars.

“I know it’s not much,” he says apologetically. “I just grabbed a bunch of random stuff from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s Edinburgh headquarters.”

It goes unspoken that Happy could feasibly stop at any store, anywhere to get them supplies. 

The seemingly lackadaisical manner he has used to select their victuals should be infuriating. 

It’s understandable, though, when May thinks of the torch that he still carries for her.

Their little ‘summer fling,’ as she calls it, has never officially ended. 

With all that’s been happening, May hasn’t had the heart to tell him she’s not that into him anymore.

Besides, he is their only link to the outside world. The last thing they want to do is antagonize him.

For their entertainment, he has brought a pack of cards, a cross stitch sampler, and back issues of Vogue and Scientific American.

“It’ll be pretty boring around here for a couple days. Next time I come, I’ll bring a little TV or something.”

May is pleased by the prospect. After just 24 hours, they have gone out of their minds.

They have spent most of that time sleeping. When May is too wired to sleep, she cleans.

For her, cleaning so far has consisted of wiping down the gas range with a microfiber cloth. 

They don’t have running water yet - their so-called ‘toilet’ is nothing more than a portable hatch - so she does the best she can with a dry cloth.

So far, this amounts to furiously scrubbing the range until the paint peels.

She hides it well in front of Happy, but May is worried about Peter.

Whenever she manages to wake him, he lies on his back and stares into space. 

Sometimes, he turns onto his side. He curls in on himself, grabs tufts of his lank brown hair, and screams.

To say that May is frightened is a bit of an understatement. Witnessing her normally reticent, mild-mannered nephew unleash months of pent up grief is nerve wracking.

She knows Peter loved Tony Stark - loves him still. 

Just 4 years old when Richard and Mary died, and 8 when Ben died, Peter has had more than his fair share of bereavement in his young life. His cup runneth over.

So he screams, over and over. 

He exhausts himself, and sleeps for hours on end.

He is fast asleep while Happy stocks their paltry provisions. 

The splotchy red welts that have broken out on Peter’s forearms are hidden by a tartan bed sheet May has draped over him.

The hives on his neck and cheeks are harder to hide. Luckily, he is turned away from Happy, so all he can see is that Peter’s hair is greasy and slick with sweat.

His job done, he waves May out on the porch. She leans against the door and wrings her hands in agitation. Her mouth is drawn in a tight, thin line.

“Look,” Happy says. “I’m going to come right out and say it. The kid is starting to smell.”

“Yeah,” May says simply. “You know, I thought he was doing OK. He did fine through the night, but almost immediately after I woke him up, he broke down. He’s...been breaking down all day.”

Her voice falters. She abruptly throws her arms around Happy and sobs into his chest.

“I - I’m sorry, Happy. I didn’t want you to see me like this.” 

“It’s fine,” Happy says huskily. “I’m glad to know you trust me enough to let your guard down around me.”

“He’s really suffering. I thought he was doing great, you know? He cried a lot, for about a week after the funeral. But after that, he just sort of got on with his life, or so I thought. He went on that field trip with the school, started dating the girl he likes. And then that Mysterio had to go and expose his identity to the world, and make it look like Peter killed him. The nerve of that asshole!”

Happy’s eyes widen to hear May Parker curse. But he gets it.

“Pete’s been through a lot. I’m sorry he has to go through all this. But he’s not going through it alone. Tony was my best friend, but even I can’t fathom the depths of the kid’s despair. Tony really was like a father to him.”

Happy realizes too late that the last sentence was maybe a little inappropriate. Before he can stutter an awkward apology, May agrees with him.

“Yeah, he really was.” She steps back and kisses his cheek.

“I’ll do my best to help him bathe. It’s only been a couple of days, but he is starting to stink the whole place up. I’ll have to haul a bucket down to the stream to get the water. I packed a bar of soap, and Peter has another change of clothes, but we’re gonna need some things, Happy, pronto.”

“Of course you do, and consider it done. I’m going to stay the night in Lerwick on the Mainland. I’ll go ahead and get the TV, get you and Peter some clothes, food, whatever else you need.”

“A first-aid kit would be nice. And some painkillers: paracetamol - isn’t that what the Scots call Tylenol here? - for Peter, and a bottle of whisky for Aunt May.”

Happy chuckles at May’s reference to herself in the third person. “OK. Does she want blended, single malt, or single grain?”

May titters and kisses the line of Happy’s jaw.

“Oh, she’s not very particular. Surprise her.”


	4. The Way Of Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin Beck pays Peter a visit.

This is what Peter Parker has learned about life so far:

When you feel the urge to go to the bathroom, you’d better do it. Better to be safe than wind up with a UTI.

No matter how smart you are, it’s not a good idea to wait until the last minute to cram for a major exam. Likewise with school projects that count for a substantial percentage of your final grade.

Always tell the people important to you how much you love them. You never know when they might decide to pull a sacrificial stunt and be bombarded with lethal radiation.

It’s probably better to obey your aunt the first time she tells you to get off the couch and go take a bath. That way, you can avoid the sighs, tearful begging, and painful cuff on the ear that precedes your eventual compliance.

By the time the sun begins to set, Peter locks himself into what is supposed to pass for the bathroom. It’s a little bigger than the closet he had back in Queens.

There’s just enough room for him to stand. The black plastic 3 gallon mop bucket Aunt May randomly found is filled nearly to the brim with cold water. It turns out there is a small freshwater stream about 100 yards away from the safehouse.

Peter peels off his plain Hanes T-shirt and throws it down. Then he steps out of his boxers and adds them to the heap.

He idly wonders how they’re supposed to wash their clothes without running water. He guesses May will have to venture down to the stream and do their laundry by hand. At some point.

Using a washcloth and the bar of lavender soap May packed, Peter bathes himself the best he can. He even remembers to wash behind his ears. Without shampoo, he wets his fingers and vigorously runs them through his hair.

When he looks up, Peter nearly has a heart attack.

Inexplicably, Quentin Beck is sitting on top of the toilet seat. He is wearing the full Mysterio costume, with the exception of his goldfish bowl helmet.

“What the f -”

“Hey, watch your language! Honestly, Peter, is that any way to greet a guest?”

Peter hurriedly puts on his clean pair of boxers - red and black checkered plaid, of course - and stares at the man who has single handedly destroyed his life.

Beck folds his arms and gives Peter a surly smirk. “Happy to see me? I’m touched.”

“Screw you!” Peter snarls. Perhaps a bit recklessly, he jabs his finger into Beck’s chest.

“You couldn’t just take a hit from a drone and die like a normal person, could you? You had to make me out to be some kind of monster. I trusted you, Mr. Beck!”

“And that was your first mistake.” Beck wraps his fingers around Peter’s. He exerts pressure and twists his hand until the joints in Peter’s finger snap.

Peter cries out and slowly sinks to his knees. Beck lets go of his finger and holds Peter’s head in his hands. 

Peter utters a low bleat of fear and Beck headbutts him, slamming their foreheads together.

Small yellow stars blur Peter’s vision. He groans and slumps forward, his chin coming to rest on Beck’s lap. Beck laughs and grabs a fistful of Peter’s hair.

He pulls, and a red hot pain spreads like fire across Peter’s scalp. Briefly, all sound fades out. Peter is unaware of anything but the rapid pounding of his heart.

Peter whimpers, tears stinging the back of his eyes. Beck relaxes his grip and pats his head like he is a dog. 

“That’s a good boy,” he says imperiously. “It’s not nice to point fingers at others.”

“You...you **bastard**!” Peter bares his teeth. He closes his eyes and wills himself to snap out of it.

“This isn't real. None of this is real. You’re not really here…”

He repeats the words like a mantra. But no matter how many times he says them, the pain doesn’t go away.

Peter opens his eyes to see Mysterio’s bronze breastplate. He slowly lifts his eyes to meet Beck’s bitter, hateful glare.

“None of this is real, Peter? I’m not really here?”

There’s a short pause and then a sudden, sharp pain radiates from his right wrist. 

Stunned, Peter looks down to find a long, thin laceration from his wrist to the middle of his forearm. Blood seeps from the cut and drips onto the floor.

Peter groans and applies pressure to his wound with his free hand. Beck sighs and clicks his tongue in mock commiseration.

“Looks like I might have nicked an artery. Or punctured a vein. One, or the other, or both. What do you call the ones in your arm again? Oh, yeah: radial and ulnar.”

Peter cries out. “May! May, please help me! Help...”

The last thing he hears before losing consciousness is a loud pounding, and the splintering of wood as the bathroom door is battered open.


	5. I'm With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter wonders. Happy declares his allegiance.

Later, after another 24 consecutive hours have passed, during which he regularly drifts in and out of consciousness, Peter is only mildly irritated to find that he is still in the confines of the safehouse. He is in the bed, the sheets pulled up to his chest.

At some point, someone put a clean shirt on him - a white, novelty _Game of Thrones_ T-shirt with a black crow and a crass message scrawled across the front in bold, black Old London font: **_Crows Before Hoes_**.

There is a low, throbbing sensation in his arm. Peter idly notes that every inch of skin between his elbow and wrist on his right arm is wrapped in gauze. The pointer finger of his left hand is in a splint. There is an IV stand beside the bed, the needle inserted into the vein on the back of the same hand.

It itches. Peter fights the urge to scratch his hand, to pull the offensive needle out. He doesn’t hear the telltale high beeping of an ECG, but he wouldn’t put it past Happy to somehow be keeping track of his heart rate by some subtle means with Stark technology.

Uncannily, as if he can read his mind, Happy clears his throat. He is sitting on the bed’s left side, in an uncomfortable steel folding chair. His eyebrows are knit together, there seem to be more wrinkles under his eyes, and his hair seems to have gotten grayer in just a few days.

“Peter, you’re awake.” His tone is bland, listless. He sounds the way Peter feels.

“May wanted me to take you to Gilbert Bain. Demanded it, actually. Even when I told her you wouldn’t make it if I did, she was pretty insistent.” The large, fist-shaped bruise on Happy’s cheek confirms this. From where he lies, Peter can see the distinct imprint of May’s wedding ring on his skin.

“She was such a wreck I had to sedate her so I could focus on you.” He smiles gently at Peter’s stricken expression. “Don’t worry, it was just a benzo, nothing too heavy. Valium.”

Peter sighs and waits for Happy to ask. He slings his bandaged arm over his eyes so he won’t have to look at him.

“Peter,” Happy begins tentatively. “You know you can trust me, right?” 

“Yeah,” Peter says. He waits for him to continue.

“Look, this is cliche, kid, but I know you’re going through a lot right now. You’ve got a lot more on your plate than you normally do, and since your plate’s a lot bigger than most people’s, it really is a lot.”

Peter grins at the analogy. Happy’s not the brightest crayon in the box, bless his heart, but it’s nice to know he cares. He clears his throat again and coughs a few times.

“Crap, I’m really bad at this. Look Peter, all I’m trying to say is, I’m here for you. I’m sorry for everything that’s happened. I want to help you, in any way I can. But you have to let me.”

“Thanks.” Peter uncovers his eyes. Happy is looking at him like he might disappear.

“I mean it. I didn’t tell your aunt, but I found the knife, Peter. I don’t know how you managed to sneak it in, and frankly, I don’t want to know. All I want to know is how I can help you. So please, tell me how.”

And he wants to, he truly does. But Peter can’t imagine any outcome to his telling the truth of what happened, without winding up locked inside of a containment module. The superhuman equivalent of being admitted to a locked ward in a psychiatric hospital.

Peter isn’t entirely sure himself exactly what happened. He’s been inside Mysterio’s illusions before. He didn’t feel the same sort of maddening vertigo last night. He swears he saw Quentin Beck die - but then, Beck is a master of illusion who somehow convinced him and the leader of S.H.I.E.L.D. that he was a heroic being from a parallel Earth.

If Beck is still alive, and if he’s just playing around with Peter’s mind again, how is it that he was physically wounded?

“Um, well. You kind of already are helping me, Happy. I think. What, uh, what did you tell her happened? What did you see when you found me?”

“Oh man, the place was a wreck. Your aunt was out on the porch, and I just happened to be walking up when we heard you scream. Then she screamed, and adrenaline just kind of took me over. I broke the door down, but when I got there, the toilet was broken. The seat, the base, the whole shebang. You were draped over the top. For a second it just looked like you were puking. Then I saw the knife, and the blood.”

Happy takes a breath. He reaches into his suit pocket and takes out a small metal case. “Is it cool if I smoke in here? It’s an e-cig, so no secondhand smoke. It’s cherry flavor.”

“Yeah, OK.” Peter nods. Happy immediately takes a long drag, and blows cherry scented vapor into the air. Peter is reminded of times he was sick as a child, when Aunt May would rub cherry menthol cream on his chest.

“Where’s May?” he asks. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, she’s good, more or less. She’s still out from the Valium, sleeping it off on the loveseat. Which reminds me, I brought you guys that TV I promised yesterday. It’s a 13 inch LED. I can set it up in the kitchen, if you want, or in front of the loveseat. I’ll put it on the coffee table I brought. It’s still out in the Quinjet, but I’ll bring it in soon.”

Happy smiles uncertainly. He’s babbling, and it makes Peter feel guilty. He is so excited about the darn TV he feels like he’ll be doing him a disservice not to acknowledge it.

“Thanks, Happy. Let’s wait and see what May says.”

“Right, that’s good. So anyway, what I told her - when I finally convinced her I could treat you here, and she’d already taken the sedative - was that you slipped on some water on the floor and fell down.”

“Really? You told her that, and she actually believed you?”

“She sure did. Well, she said she did, anyway. No offense, Peter, but you're kind of a klutz. Look, this isn’t something I’m going to be able to bring up to her later. I hope you’re not naive enough to think she’s just going to forget about this.”

“No,” Peter murmurs sullenly. After all they’ve been through, he’s a little hurt that Happy still thinks of him as a child.

And he’s not finished yet. “I’m trying, Peter. I really am. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you better. If it had been in my power, I would have kept you from getting tangled up in that nasty business with Beck. Nick Fury is not an easy person to say no to, as I’m sure you’ve figured out.”

Peter chuckles in agreement. The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. is almost as intimidating as Mysterio.

“He’s not, but you know what, kid? He’s not my boss, and he never was. Tony was, and now in his absence, you are.”

“What?” Peter’s not sure if he hears him right. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re the boss, kid. So however you want to proceed with this, whatever you want to do, I’m all in. I’m with you. Now tell me, what do you want me to do?”


	6. Let All The People Say, "Ramen"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's appetite suffers.

In the next few days, Happy takes steps to renovate the safehouse and turn it into a home. At Peter’s direction, he moves a small futon beside the main bed. Peter sleeps there, and on the occasions that he spends the night, Happy sleeps on the loveseat.

After the incident in the bathroom, Happy has plumbing installed and had a real, flushable toilet put in place. With running water, sinks are put in place in the kitchen area and the bathroom. Peter tears out a small portion of the wall and the room nearly triples in size.

A small ivory clawfoot tub, an antique Happy snatched up for cheap on the Mainland, is moved into the newly expanded bathroom.

Peter’s finger heals within a week. The laceration on his arm takes a little longer. The knife that Beck - or Beck’s specter - used to cut him with is a black handled utility knife with serrated edges. The resulting wound was too deep and jagged for Happy to properly stitch closed with sutures.

Instead, after thoroughly washing the cut to minimize bacteria, it was sealed with surgical glue. Peter changes the gauze bandage twice a day. He takes Cipro to prevent infection, and paracetamol to manage the pain. Aunt May is leery of his use of Cipro, but so far, the only side effect he has had is short term nausea. 

Gradually, the wound heals. The scar tissue that forms in its wake is conspicuous, but Aunt May covers it up with some of her pancake makeup. She applies it to her face every morning with a wet sponge, looking in a compact mirror. When she finishes, she gingerly dabs it onto the pale, marred skin of Peter’s forearm.

Sometimes, she cries. Every time, she kisses him, her lips smudging the concealer and making it necessary for her to add another coat. She resists the urge to kiss his arm again. Ever since the encounter, Aunt May is a lot more emotional and expressive in her affection.

She strokes her fingers through his hair. She often stops him throughout the day and hugs him. She kisses his cheek, the crown of his head, the sprinkle of freckles across his nose. She tells him “I love you” like a compulsion, like a magical incantation to keep him safe. 

She treats him like he is 6 years old, instead of 16-going-on-17, but Peter appreciates it. She’s been through so much in her life - orphaned at 14, informed at 21 that she would never be able to have children, widowed at 40 - and Peter hates to be a source of worry for her now.

As time goes by, May channels her nervous energy into productivity. She dusts and vacuums the safehouse every day. 

She cooks ample, hearty meals she remembers from her childhood. The polenta and risotto dishes her Italian mother made, or haggis, neeps and tatties she reads about in her cookbook of favorite Scottish cuisine.

Peter eats small bites of whatever she makes, but he cannot seem to regain his appetite. Spending the majority of his time reading or watching TV, he doesn’t need the same amount of energy now as when he was actively fighting crime.

The one meal he eats every bite of, and is able to keep down, is one of the cheap, sodium-saturated packs of ramen noodles that Happy brought to the safehouse on their first day. 

May fills a small pot with water and boils it on the gas range. She breaks the block of noodles up by hand and stares into the boiling water as if she is mesmerized. 

It only takes about 5 minutes for the ramen to cook. After she drains the noodles, she sticks a fork in the colander and sets it down on the coffee table, with a little more force than is necessary. Peter smiles sheepishly and tries not to wolf it down in front of her.

Sometimes, it works, but more often, he can’t help himself. He shovels forkful after forkful of ramen into his mouth as if he is starving, which, May realizes with dismay, he is. Her heart breaks as she sits at the table with him. 

They could sit in the loveseat, or in the bean bag chairs Peter insisted they buy, but most of the time Peter prefers that they sit on the carpet, Indian-style, like they used to do in their apartment in Queens.

He takes comfort in simplicity, and in May’s presence. While he eats, May holds his hand. 

She threads their fingers together. She badly wants to ask him what happened, but just as badly she doesn’t want to unnerve him in any way.

So she doesn’t say anything at all, and over time an awkward chasm of silence grows between them.


	7. You Want It Darker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin pays another visit and things get a little sticky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's a lover in the story,  
> But the story's still the same.  
> There's a lullaby for suffering  
> And a paradox to blame...  
> You want it darker  
> We kill the flame."
> 
> \- Leonard Cohen

Early the next morning, Peter finds that he is literally incapable of getting out of bed. His body feels heavier than usual, as if the force of gravity itself is trying to hold him back. From the faint pink glow in the sky visible through the curtains, Peter estimates it must be about 4:00 in the morning.

While it is located merely a few yards from the bed, the futon is separated by a makeshift barrier of thick red glass beads. According to Aunt May, it was a good idea to hang them up because Peter is a man now, and men have needs.

Peter went along with it, even though if truth be told, he hasn’t felt very manly lately. The beads are just the latest in a series of eccentric ideas Aunt May has instituted.

Peter knows she means well, but he would rather she didn’t. It is doubly awkward because the first time his needs were met, it was at the age of 13 with the help of her senior high school yearbook photo.

Peter struggles against the immaterial force that is pressing him down on the futon. He does so halfheartedly, wary of waking his aunt. A knot of dread forms in his chest as he feels an invisible finger trace the scar on his forearm. Peter stifles a scream as Beck materializes before him. This time around, he is thankfully not wearing his Mysterio costume.

What he is wearing is a vintage black shirt with the AC/DC logo in bright red, and solid black boxer shorts. It’s nearly comforting, in an absurd sort of way. Peter thinks of it as a reminder that, as despicable as he has been, Beck is not a monster. He’s just a man. A tall, buff, blue-eyed man.

“Hey Peter,” he says casually. “How’s it going?”

Peter doesn’t answer right away. He turns his head in the direction of the bed. Beck laughs, a low, hoarse cackle that makes goosebumps rise on Peter’s arms. He takes Peter’s arm. He sticks his tongue out and licks the scar from the crook of his arm to his wrist.

“If you’re worried about waking your auntie up, don’t. She mixed Valium with Scotch. I think she’s down for the count, at least until noon. I guess you’re all mine ‘til then.” Beck smirks at the teen’s panicked expression.

“Don’t worry, she only took one of each. That is, one 10 milligram pill with one shot of whisky. It’s a reckless combination in any amount, to be sure, but I think your aunt can handle it. This ain’t her first rodeo, after all. Not by a long shot.”

“Shut up!” Peter whispers harshly. He reaches up to scratch Beck’s cheek. His nails draw blood. Beck hisses, and his eyes gleam. “Fair enough,” he growls. “You can consider that as payback for what I did to your arm.”

“Fair enough? You think a few little superficial scratches make up for you maiming me?” Peter is overwhelmed with a burning fury. He shivers as Beck crosses his arms over his head and holds his wrists together. 

“Because of what you did, I bled out like a stuck pig. I lost almost 20% of my blood. I went into hemorrhagic shock, you asshole!”

“Ooh, burn. You’re really hurting my feelings, kid. I think I might cry. Now, how are you going to make it up to me?” 

Beck’s breath reeks of booze as he lowers his head. His forehead touches Peter’s. He gently rubs his head back and forth, a perverse allusion to their previous encounter. “I can think of a way.”

“G-get off of me, you creep!” Peter squirms in his hold. “I’m only 16, you pedo!”

Beck leers down at him in a predatory fashion. “You’re a long way from home, kiddo. You might have been too young in New York, but here in the magical land of tartan and tatties, you’re good to go.”

“What the - how the hell do you know where I am?!” Peter’s voice cracks with fear. He sounds like what he is, a scared little kid in way over his head. Beck gets off on his terror.

Unceremoniously, Beck reaches back with his free hand and snaps the elastic waistband of Peter’s boxers. Peter yips. He turns his head aside and sinks his teeth into Beck’s neck.

The man makes a brutal sound, half groan and half growl, and throws his head back. He lets go of Peter’s wrists and grabs the back of his head, holding him close even as he hurts him. Peter closes his teeth.

Beck wraps his hand around Peter’s neck. He squeezes, cutting off his air supply, and Peter’s face reddens. Beck lets go when he stops biting him, his breath coming in a harsh whooping sound.

Beck touches his neck. His hand comes away bloody. He examines the small droplets of blood on his fingers as if they belong to someone else. Peter can’t deny the surge of sadistic satisfaction he feels. Beck left a mark on him, and now he has returned the favor.

“Geez, kid. You surprised me. I forgot that kittens have teeth, too, not just claws.” He smears his fingers over Peter’s lips, then covers his mouth. “Bite me again,” he orders.

Peter’s pupils dilate. He mumbles and gingerly nips Beck’s palm. “Eh, I guess that’s good enough. Now onto the main event.”

Beck slides his fingers between Peter’s legs. Peter flails beneath him, but grows still when Beck uncovers his mouth. He kisses him, sticking his tongue so far down Peter’s throat that he gags a little. Beck draws his lower lip between his teeth and bites down.

Peter whimpers as Beck feels him up. When Beck slips his fingers through the flap and pulls him out of his boxers, Peter is so lightheaded he passes out. He wakes up again, trembling, as Beck slides down the futon. 

He lets go of Peter’s wrists and covers his mouth again. With his other hand he keeps a firm grip on Peter as his chin rests on the teen’s knees. 

“Alright, Peter, here’s how this is going to go down. I’m about to make you feel really, really good. It’ll probably be the best feeling you’ve ever had in your life. But I know you haven’t done this before, so you have to trust me, OK?”

He blinks. “Maybe that was a poor choice of words. You made it pretty clear the last time we met that you don’t trust me. Not that I blame you, but now I need you to hold it together for a few minutes. Do it for your aunt, if not for me.”

The thinly veiled threat of harm to Aunt May persuades Peter to go along with whatever Beck has in mind. What the conman has in mind is to squeeze and stroke him until he is rigid. Peter lies completely still under Beck’s ministrations until the man puts Peter in his mouth.

Peter whines pitifully, his cries muffled by Beck’s hand. He closes his eyes and imagines that he is somewhere - anywhere - else. The old apartment in Queens. His favorite Thai restaurant. Midtown High School. Playing video games with Ned at the Leeds’ house. Kissing MJ standing on the historic crosswalk in Abbey Road.

He is not here in this one room cabin, in a forest on one of the most remote and sparsely inhabited islands in the world. He is not being held down on a crappy black futon mattress, being sexually assaulted by an inebriated, muttering psychopath. 

He is not mere feet away from his snoring aunt who is too strung out, drunk, and weighed down with her own issues to protect him.

He does not need to be protected. He does not actually enjoy what Beck is doing to him. He does not come in Beck’s mouth, nor does he whimper in desolation when Beck releases him with a soft, wet pop.

Peter stares dreamily into space while Beck covers him up with an afghan blanket, pulling it up to his chin. It’s nearly the middle of summer, but in this part of Scotland the temperature is about 40 degrees cooler than in New York. 

Peter puts a hand on top of Beck’s. “How are you here?” he asks incredulously. “How did you find me? How are you even - I mean, I saw you get shot, and I -”

“Hush.” Beck presses a finger to Peter’s lips. “Don’t overthink it, kid. Just go with it. Of all the things you’ve seen in just the past couple of years, is it really so hard to believe that I’m really here with you? Have I made such a small impression on you that you still doubt my abilities? Honestly, Peter, I’m hurt.”

“S-sorry, Mr. Beck.” Peter blushes and bites his thumbnail nervously. Beck takes his finger and glowers at him. “Peter, don’t do that. You’re smarter than that. Do you have any idea how many pathogens you put in your mouth every time you do that?”

“Hundreds, at least. Maybe millions. You’re right, Mr. Beck.”

“Another thing, I want you to call me ‘Quentin.’ I told you that when we first met back in Venice.” Beck smiles darkly. “Do you remember the first thing you said to me?”

Peter shakes his head. Beck smooths his hair back, in disarray from their interlude.

“You were wearing that ridiculous getup that made you look like a bank robber. I was fighting off the Water Elemental - you thought I was, anyway. And your first words to me were _'Hi, I can help! I’m strong...and sticky!'_ I was touched that you wanted to help me. And you know what, Peter? You were right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've gone and done it. I've gone and joined the legions of Peter Parker/Quentin Beck shipper fans. I took a little extra time with this chapter, because I honestly didn't know how it was going to turn out. But once I start typing, one thing just leads to another. I really didn't intend this chapter/story to turn out this way, but here we are. I was significantly influenced by an observation made by a reader in chapter 4, and I realized, oh yeah, they're right!
> 
> All apologies to my readers who are more inclined to read tame, wholesome stories that don't include things such as gay, underage, nonconsensual intercourse. Due to this chapter's contents, I will have to change the rating of the story to M. I hope that doesn't keep you from reading further. If it does, I am sorry, and I do appreciate you reading thus far.
> 
> Thanks to all my readers and reviewers. ✌


	8. In My Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony confronts Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My heart is torn just in knowing  
> You'll someday see the truth from lies  
> Knowing clouds will raise up  
> Storms will race in  
> But you will be safe in my arms."
> 
> \- Plumb

Quentin Beck vanishes as abruptly as he appeared. Peter doesn’t have time to reply to his last comment. That’s alright with him, though. When the man who instigated all of the current turmoil in his life not only excites him, but manages to bring him to climax, he has a lot more to think about. 

Namely, where is he? Peter no longer doubts the irrefutable fact that Quentin Beck is alive and well.

Alive, at least. The next most pressing thought Peter has is what kind of tech upgrades he’s made in the last month since he faked his death. It’s highly unlikely, but there is a possibility that he is currently based in or near the Northern Isles - he must at least somewhere in the United Kingdom. 

In the recording that Jameson reporter got his hands on, Quentin’s bitter, unhinged wrath toward Peter had been on full display.

Peter can’t reconcile that ire with the polite, soft-spoken man he first met in Venice, nor with the awkwardly aggressive, domineering, would-be suitor who just left. The encounter had been rough, but not unpleasant. 

Peter almost can’t believe the way he fought back. The scratches he made on Beck’s cheek are shallow, and can easily be concealed with a bit of foundation.

The bite marks on his neck, however, won’t be so easy to hide. In the heat of the moment, Peter was genuinely afraid. The brusque, authoritarian way Beck went about getting into his pants leaves a slight queasy feeling in Peter’s stomach.

He hates the way he blushes as blood rushes to his cheeks at the memory. He hates the nearly instant reaction his body has when he recalls Beck sticking his tongue down his throat, the insidiously masterful way Beck stroked and kneaded him.

He hates to admit it, even to himself, but his tumble on the futon with Quentin is actually the closest Peter’s been to full blown coitus. 

Oh, he’s had plenty of fantasies over the years. But, apart from regularly helping himself along, and about a dozen or so chaste pecks with MJ, he hasn’t had any experience in that area. 

On top of that, Peter knows that he shouldn’t feel anything but loathing for the man. How is it possible that the man who wrecked his life, and those of everyone he has ever cared about, can also be the source of the greatest pleasure in his memory? 

Yeah, Quentin Beck may be a liar above all things, but that’s one thing he’s told the truth about.

For all of the crap he’s gone through, all of the mental and physical torture inflicted upon him - yes, largely at Quentin’s hands - Peter doesn’t have it in him to blame him anymore. It takes too much energy to hold a grudge, and that’s one thing Peter has lacked of late. 

If it comes down to a choice of reliving the horror of watching the only father he can remember die, or being rubbed and tugged into a temporary intense, ecstatic oblivion, Peter chooses the latter.

Peter slowly sits up on the futon as whatever mystical force that held him down lets him go. He winces in pain, and upon investigation finds red bruises on both wrists, the imprints of Quentin’s fingers. 

Peter trails his fingers over the bruises, lines them up with Quentin’s fingerprints. His own hand is dwarfed in comparison. Peter thinks of the scene from _The Lion King_ when as a cub Simba stepped into his father’s paw print.

**“Peter.”**

Without warning, Tony is there. Still wearing his father’s old bathrobe, he sits a few inches away from him. 

His look of sheer disappointment makes Peter’s eyes burn. He lowers his gaze, staring at the threadbare plaid blanket Quentin left behind.

Tony takes his chin and tilts his head up. The tears that have been in gathering in his eyes freely flow. 

Tony hasn’t looked at him like that since after the fiasco with the Staten Island Ferry.

Tony brushes Peter’s tears with his thumb, in gentle contrast to the bruising strength of his knuckles in their last encounter. 

He kisses Peter’s cheekbone, a light peck that he barely feels. It softens the sting of the next words out of Tony’s mouth. 

“Peter, do you mind telling me what the hell you think you’re doing?”

Peter opens his mouth, closes, and opens it again. He racks his brain trying to formulate a coherent explanation. 

He can’t find the words, so he ultimately falls back on the two hackneyed words that are still the hardest for him to say: “I’m sorry.”

“ _Are you,_ though? Are you _really?_ ” Tony’s eyes narrow as they laser in on the dried bloodstains on his lips. 

“Dear God, what has he done to you?”

“It’s OK, Mr. Stark, it’s not my blood. He’s never - I mean, he hasn’t hurt me bad. Not lately.”

“Not lately? What does that mean?” Tony’s gaze shifts to Peter’s arm. He gasps and grabs Peter’s arm. “What the...oh, for the love of...oh my God!” He touches his lips to the disfigured flesh, following the path the knife made.

“That scar is five inches long,” he says grimly. Tony’s entire body is shaking with rage, rattling the futon. 

“Peter, you’re a good kid. You’re a smart kid, and I know you know better. That scum sucking son of a bitch nearly killed you!”

Peter sniffles miserably. “So what if he had? At least I’d be with you, then.”

“Oh, no.” Tony wraps his arms around him. “You don’t get to do that to me, kid. Not again.”

“You mean I won’t be with you?” The tremor in his voice makes Tony grip him tighter. 

It sucks that Peter has the weight of the world on his shoulders, when he’s still just a kid. Practically a baby.

“No, buddy, you won’t.” Tony rubs Peter’s back. “I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true. I’m here with you now, though.”

Peter tears himself out of Tony’s embrace. His features twist into an ugly, angry leer. 

“Yeah, so you keep saying. _‘I’ll always be here for you, Peter, whenever you need me.’_ But you’re **not,** Mr. Stark. You weren’t there when all the shit was happening with Mysterio in Europe! You weren’t there to protect me when he filleted my arm!”

His voice gets so high and shrill he’s amazed Aunt May doesn’t wake up. Which is yet another source of his suffering. “If you had been here, Mr. Stark, you could have stopped him. I know you could have. Maybe then May wouldn’t have turned to benzos and booze to try to cope.”

“Alright, that’s enough. Stop right there.” Tony’s face darkens. He grips Peter by the shoulders and looks him right in the eye. 

“I know that you’re hurting, Peter. Believe me. Don’t you know that if it had been in my power, I would have protected you? I’d have kicked Beck’s ass so hard he would have to take off that ridiculous fishbowl to take a shit.”

Peter laughs, he can’t help himself. A thought crosses his mind, and it’s so embarrassing and disturbing he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. Tony sees the way his eyebrows furrow, the blanched look of terror. 

“What’s wrong, Peter? You’ve got that look. I know that look. What’s on your mind, son?”

 _Son._ The word provokes a fresh round of tears. Peter has cried more in the past month than he has in all of his nearly 17 years, combined. 

“I was just wondering...how long were you watching us? What all did you see?”

Tony’s face turns crimson. He coughs and stalls as long as he can, until Peter elbows his side. “Well?”

“I - I saw enough. Don’t think I’m some kind of voyeuristic pervert. I honestly could have done without seeing...what I saw. God, it was even worse than when I walked in on my parents as a kid. Probably because you’re _my_ kid; what parent wants to see that?”

Tony’s words open up the floodgates. Peter quietly sobs, rattling the mattress springs. If by some chance May happens to wake up, she’ll most likely be too groggy to come check on him. That, or she might just chalk it up to Peter meeting his needs.

Tony lets him cry. Peter hugs him, his tears, snot and saliva drenching Tony’s robe just like before. 

“I’m here, Peter. I’m right here. I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, there's nothing like some good old melodrama. 
> 
> Seriously, I know the whole trope of having Peter being constantly whumped and woobie is getting pretty tiresome. 
> 
> I'm going to steadily branch out from that plot line (if you can call it that) in the coming days and week.
> 
> (Well, so much for what I said in the beginning about it not having a plot line. It kind of does, but the primary focus is still the characters and what's happening in their headspace.)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.


	9. I Am Only One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy tries to hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm on my own here, and  
> No-one's left to be the hero.  
> This fairy tale's gone wrong as  
> Night will fall, my heart will die alone."
> 
> \- We Are The Fallen

Despite her promises in the coming days to drastically cut back on her intake, then quit altogether, Aunt May can’t lay off the sauce. 

As soon as she wakes up in the early afternoon, she pours herself a glass of whisky.

One finger of whisky leads to another.

She sets up a folding table at the foot of the bed and moves the TV there.

She watches BBC Scotland for hours, never changing the channel. She stares blankly at the screen and drinks one glass after another. 

She gets up to eat or go to the bathroom, but she never speaks to Peter.

Except for a rare smile and nod in his direction, she doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. 

As irrational as he knows it to be, Peter can’t help but blame himself. 

Losing Uncle Ben, doing her best to raise Peter on her own. Working a series of unfulfilling, low-paying, dead-end jobs. 

Constantly worrying for Peter and his safety. The Blip, his secret identity being exposed. 

Moving into a cramped, primitive hovel in the middle of nowhere.

Watching Peter stumble through the days, more often than not too depressed or disinterested to take care of himself. Seeing him mutilated, nearly losing him. 

Watching the light in her beloved nephew’s eyes fade day after day, the light of her life steadily dimming. All of these things compound and make it nearly impossible for May to cope.

As she whiles away the hours in a constant drunken stupor, Peter sleeps. He gets up a few times a day to use the bathroom. He bathes early in the morning, before May wakes up. He changes his clothes, eats a granola bar, and goes back to sleep on the futon.

When the laundry basket fills up, Peter drops his dirty clothes listlessly on the floor. It slowly piles up. When he is no longer able to see the floor for all of the clothes and towels, Peter has just enough presence of mind to shove them under the bed. 

He rolls all the laundry together into a tight ball, which he binds with a small amount of webbing. He has not seen or even thought about his web shooters in weeks. He found one by accident, tripping over it after it had somehow ended up mixed in with his shirts.

With the offending barrier removed from the walkway, Peter paces the length of the cabin back and forth for want of something to do.

He walks around pointlessly for hours, until the soles of his feet start to bleed. 

He doesn’t notice until the front door opens and closes. He stands still when he hears a sharp intake of breath.

“Peter, what the hell?” It’s Happy. He stands in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth agape. “Are you alright?”

Peter doesn’t speak. He blinks, and seems to stare at something over Happy’s shoulder. Within seconds, his face falls. 

His features contort and he shrieks. He drops to the ground. He presses his face into the carpet and covers the back of his head.

It’s baffling, to say the least. Happy slowly kneels down in front of him. He cautiously places one hand on the top of Peter’s head. With the other, he touches his back.

“Peter,” Happy speaks softly, just above a whisper. There’s no telling what’s going on in the kid’s head, what might set him off. “Peter, it’s Happy. Can you hear me, buddy?”

It seems like he can. Peter lifts his head. His eyes are glazed as they meet Happy’s.

“Mr. Stark!” he cries urgently. “Mr. Stark, I don’t feel so good…”

Oh, shit. Not again. Happy gently scoops Peter up off the floor. He takes hold of his shoulders, praying Peter can’t feel his hands begin to shake.

“It’s OK, Peter. You’re alright. I’m right here.”

Peter shakes his head. He reaches out a hand to grasp Happy’s collar. “We won, didn’t we? I thought we won, Mr. Stark.” He whimpers, his lower lip protruding as tears stream down his cheeks.

“Yeah, we did.” Happy wraps his arms around Peter. “We won, Peter. You’re OK now; we’re all OK now.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I don’t - I don’t want to go. I don’t wanna go, Mr. Stark! Please, don’t let him take me! Please, sir, please! I’m sorry, Mr. Stark. I’m so sorry. Please, sir, don’t let him take me. Tony, please, don’t let him take me! I don’t wanna go with him! I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go!”

All Happy can do is hold onto Peter. All of a sudden they are enveloped in a bright, psychedelic green light. 

The sound of a rushing wind fills the cabin. 

Happy closes his eyes when the light gets brighter.

When he opens them again, Peter is gone.


	10. For Pete's Sake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get a little out of hand between Peter and Quentin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: do not read this chapter while you're working, or if you hope to get any work of any kind done, anytime soon.

As he cradles Peter in his arms like an infant, Quentin’s heart sinks. After they first met, Quentin had found out as much about the kid as he could. At 5’8” tall, weighing 140 lbs., Peter was considered to be healthy, his weight within the normal range for his demographic.

Now, after just 6 weeks, he is so thin that his cheeks are sunken. His skin cleaves to his bones. His ribs sharply protrude. Quentin counts each one. There are 24, as is right.

He estimates that Peter’s weight has fallen to below 100 lbs. The teen looks as though he has been incarcerated in a concentration camp. In a way, Quentin muses as he lays Peter down in his bed, he has been.

The poor kid had been frantic, out of his mind when Quentin came for him. As he pulled Peter away from Stark’s fat stooge, he had screeched and flailed like a fish. He clawed Quentin’s face and neck until his nails were coated with blood, until the man’s vision blurred and he had to bite his bottom lip to stay conscious.

He surveys the damage in a full length mirror, feeling a dizzying sense of pride and revulsion. The cuts are deeper than the ones Peter inflicted upon him at the cabin. Especially the throbbing, inflamed cut just below his jaw. It is almost as if Peter tried to slash his carotid artery.

Quentin hisses in pain as he presses a cotton ball soaked in alcohol to the wound. He is tempted to use lidocaine to dull the pain, but part of him actually enjoys the feeling. He applies alcohol and bandages to all of his injuries, and turns his attention to Peter.

He is sleeping fitfully, his eyelids trembling, his body convulsing. His jaw is clenched, his teeth grinding as he wraps his arms over his stomach. He is so pale, his skin is practically translucent.

Quentin waits for Peter to calm down. His fear slowly subsides. He turns onto his stomach, slipping his right hand under the pillow. His left hand dangles from the bed. His discordant breaths give way to the slow, steady breathing of a deep sleep.

How fortunate; Quentin won’t have to dip into his scant supply of sedatives just yet. Since the Battle of London, he’s running low on everything. Sitting at the end of the bed, Quentin places Peter’s feet in his lap as he disinfects and bandages them.

Unable to help himself, he plays with Peter’s toes. His eyes crinkle in childish delight as they stick to his fingers, the suction that allows the teen to climb walls. While familiar with the adhesive properties of the teen’s fingers, he wasn’t entirely confident his toes would have the same makeup.

Quentin is so preoccupied with Peter’s feet that he doesn’t realize he’s woken him up. Peter blinks a few times as his surroundings incrementally come into focus. The bed they’re on is massive, undoubtedly king size. The pillowcase and duvet are made of velvet, the softest, most luxuriant material Peter has ever slept on.

The entire room is the same vivid, emerald green as the light Peter saw before he fainted. He’s curious, and the scientist in him wants to ask Quentin about the tech he used to pull off his abduction. The realist in him urges Peter to stay silent, to pretend he’s still asleep so he can spy on Quentin during this unguarded moment. To take note of any weaknesses to employ later.

As it stands, the only thing Peter is able to ascertain about Quentin is that the man has a weird obsession with his toes. He bites his tongue when Quentin literally kisses the soles of his feet. OK, well, he sure as hell wasn’t expecting that.

Quentin runs a finger over the balls of both Peter’s feet. Peter giggles, cursing his supernaturally heightened senses and general ticklishness. Quentin starts, transferring his stare from Peter’s foot to his face. Peter swallows the lump in his throat. 

It’s hard for him not to make a quip about Quentin’s shaving skills, seeing the numerous bandages and pieces of bloodied toilet paper stuck to his neck and face.

Which is weird, because judging by the state of stubble on his cheeks, it’s been a little while since the man’s had any dealings with a razor. This can only mean he’s had an unfortunate encounter with a wild animal, or that he tried to get freaky with Peter in the sack again. Maybe he did, the bastard. Either way, it serves him right.

“So,” Peter eventually says, to break the uncomfortable silence. “Where am I?”

Not _where are we?_ , or even _why did you take me?_. From the time Quentin framed him for murder and told the world his deepest, darkest secret, Peter's known that it was only a matter of when, not if, he would come for him. Poisoning the minds of the public against him wasn’t enough.

He wants to control him, to get him under his thumb. He wants Peter to be his little disciple, his sidekick, the Sundance Kid to his Butch Cassidy. It’s one of the oldest tropes in the book - in _any_ book.

Quentin’s hands come to rest on Peter’s knees. He rubs his kneecaps gently, as it to soothe a frightened child. Which, in a sense, he is.

“We’re on my yacht in the North Sea. Probably about midway between Shetland and Norway.”

“Your - your _yacht?_ ” Peter doesn’t try to hide his derision. “You kidnapped me from my aunt, and you’re making your great escape in a yacht? God, this is like _Taken_ meets _The Love Boat_. And...what the heck were you doing to my feet? Do I even want to know?”

Quentin laughs mirthlessly. “I’ll leave that to your imagination. Nothing I say can be more terrifying than whatever your mind chooses to cook up.”

He moves his hands up Peter’s legs. He grips the teen’s hips with his fingertips. A bolt of furious panic seizes Peter and propels him to sit upright. He grabs Quentin’s hands to stop their progression toward the family jewels.

“Don’t touch me,” he advises. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mr. Beck.”

“Quentin,” he corrects. “I told you when we first met, Peter, you can call me Quentin. I’d rather you did.” He smirks and, before Peter can stop him, reaches between his legs. He closes his fingers hard at the base of Peter’s shaft.

Peter grunts and thrusts into his hand in response. He isn’t even hard yet, but the memory of Quentin’s mouth around him nearly causes him to pass out. He slaps Quentin’s stubbly cheek, hard, etching his hand print onto his skin.

Quentin’s laugh is a harsh chuckle, followed by a pained gasp. He closes his eyes and covers his stinging cheek. “Peter,” he whimpers. “You don’t have to hit so hard!”

Peter huffs, his brown eyes getting as big as tea saucers. “I told you I don’t want to hurt you!” He yells, thinking that maybe he’ll get through to Quentin if he speaks at a high enough volume. Quentin glowers at Peter, rubbing his cheek.

Peter starts to think that maybe he’s gotten his point across when, with dizzying speed, Quentin grabs him. He flips him over and rolls under him, ripping Peter’s boxers down his waist and shoving his cock between his legs. 

As their organs mingle, Peter wonders when he should expect to wake up. There’s no way he’s actually here, on Quentin Beck’s yacht, in his bed, seconds away from losing his virginity. This is hands down the weirdest, most fucked up wet dream he’s ever had.

Quentin’s beard scratches the back of his neck. His breath tickles Peter’s ear as he whispers. “There’s one temptation removed. You’re welcome.” He kisses the hollow of Peter’s throat. “With that being said, I think it’s only fair that if I take one temptation away, I satisfy another.”

He slips his fingers around him. He strokes the length of him gently, and then digs his nails into him. Peter moans low in his throat and pulses in Quentin’s hand. “Please,” he begs. He trembles in Quentin’s hold. He can’t articulate exactly what it is he wants.

Quentin can guess. He pumps Peter’s manhood, squeezing him hard against his chest. Peter cries out and arches back, his head hitting Quentin’s as he seizes and shudders. Warmth floods Quentin’s hand, Peter’s seed coating him as he comes with a hoarse sob.

Quentin moans at the feel of it and the ache in his forehead, a bruise forming where Peter’s head slammed back against him. He kisses Peter’s cheek and ear. He holds him fast and turns in the bed, leaning on top of Peter’s back as the teen kneels before him.

He is evidently raring to go. For a seemingly straitlaced, wholesome kid, Peter knows an awful lot. Quentin figures that, like himself, he has indulged in his fair share of pornographic viewing.

He tentatively licks one finger and sticks it inside Peter. The teen hisses air between his teeth. Quentin adds another finger. Peter’s hole absorbs the digits and he pants, eager to be penetrated. Quentin wraps an arm around his waist, holding him still as he slowly slides into him, stretching him.

Peter makes a little mewling sound like a kitten. He presses his face into the pillow, panting. He swallows the whimpering cry that rises in his throat. He bends down in submission, and Quentin thrusts into him, each movement bringing them closer to climax.

When he comes again, Peter cries out into the pillow. Quentin holds his hips and makes a choked groan, and growls deep in his chest as he thrusts, his body surging against Peter as he bursts and fills him with his seed.

Peter pants and presses his back against Quentin’s chest for the sheer pleasure of it. Quentin holds him for a long time, his shaft softening as his seed tickles and slides down Peter’s buttocks.

Quentin groans, his breath rustling Peter’s hair, and sits back. Peter turns onto his side, facing Quentin. The scent of their romp is overwhelming. Quentin lays down and pulls Peter toward him and kisses him.

“Whoa,” Peter exclaims. “That was awesome!”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees. He combs his fingers through Peter’s hair, doing his best to tame the disheveled mess. “ **You** were pretty awesome, Peter.”

"Thanks, Mr. - Quentin." Peter yawns.

The act of rubbing Peter’s scalp relaxes him. Quentin strokes the teen’s hair until he falls asleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...that was my first fully fleshed out, full blown sex scene. I hope it wasn't too cringey, or that my insistent use of euphemisms to refer to the male sexual organ wasn't too off putting. 
> 
> Honestly I find it awkward as hell to speculate on and make conjecture about sexuality of any sort anyway, I just hope I wrote it OK. Any feedback or pointers from readers is greatly appreciated. 
> 
> As always, thanks to all my readers and reviewers. ✌
> 
> (*Note to self: I should **probably** go ahead and change the rating to E...*)


	11. My Mother's Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Quentin bond a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I've seen all that I dare  
> I've seen more than my share  
> Forgive me if I stare with my mother's eyes."
> 
> \- Bette Midler

All through the night, Quentin holds Peter. He wakes once or twice, puzzled by the darkness and the smell and the ache in his bottom. The gentle rocking of the yacht by the waves of the North Sea lull him back to sleep.

The next time Peter wakes up, he’s horrified. Quentin Beck, the man who just last night stole him from his aunt, the psychopathic megalomaniac who ruined his life and his reputation, is sleeping beside him. His arm is draped possessively over Peter’s waist, holding him fast against his side.

They’re wearing plain black T-shirts, but they’re both naked from the waist down. Peter blushes at the sight of Quentin’s shaft and centers his gaze on the plethora of Band-Aids on his face. He touches Quentin’s cheek, strokes it, a feeble attempt to undo the damage.

By rights, he should be **furious**. This man who has taken his virginity is twice his age. Peter had hoped the entire exploit was just a dream, in keeping with Quentin’s past predilection for torturing him with smoke and mirrors.

He feels achy and hot and sticky. Still, he can’t lie to himself and say that the sight of Quentin doesn’t stir a surge of lust in him. Peter is amazed at the sight of his bruised and bandaged visage, knowing that he is the cause of it.

He has left his mark on Quentin, good and proper. He has branded him. Peter narrows his eyes and revels in the malevolent pleasure of it. Quentin wakes and takes a deep breath.

Peter’s gaze meets his. The corners of Quentin’s mouth curl up in a rueful smile. He has met his match. 

“Good morning, Peter,” he says softly. “Did you sleep well? Was last night as good for you as it was for me?”

Peter licks his lips. He sits up and surveys the room, the bookcase against the wall, the oak dresser. He lets the fringe of his hair frame his face to hide his eyes. “It sure was,” he says bluntly. “You’re really good in bed.”

Quentin sits up too. He brushes his hands through Peter’s hair, pushing it back carefully. “I suppose I am,” he agrees. “But only because I’ve had so much more experience. Whereas you, I think, are pretty new to the game.”

Heat rises in Peter’s face. His cheeks flush pink, but he doesn’t say anything in response. Quentin pulls Peter into his embrace. The teen’s head rests on his chest. He kisses the back of Peter’s neck, and tastes the salt of his sweat.

The aroma of sweat and blood and their seed commingles in a noxious brew. There is nothing saccharine or gentle or wholesome about their union. It is something dark and misty and not quite real, a dark fairy tale never to be spoken of in polite company.

Peter gasps as Quentin grips him closer and rests his chin on top of his head. As the madman holds him like a lover, his breath ruffling his hair, Peter swears to himself that someday, one way or another, he will get out of this. He will somehow make his way back to Aunt May, and he will make everything right again.

Peter stands up abruptly. Quentin follows, and Peter turns toward him. His eyes trail from his black socks to his bare member, the sharp sword now sheathed and harmless. Peter’s gaze travels up to his chest and shoulders, and lingers on his battered face. 

He greatly resembles the artist’s rendering of Lucifer in his catechism textbook from childhood, newly cast out of Heaven. Peter shivers involuntarily at the fearful association. He presses his thumb, pointer and middle fingers together on his right hand and makes the sign of the cross.

Quentin smiles at the gesture. He feels Peter staring at him. He stands and lets him.

“My, my,” he murmurs. “Such a good little Catholic you are.” His voice drips with sarcasm. “Who knows, with you around I might even try to become a better one. Maybe you’ll be a good influence on me.”

“You’re Catholic, too?” Peter can’t disguise his interest. “Did you go through Confirmation and all that?”

Quentin smiles and pinches Peter’s cheek. “Yes, I was baptized into the Church as an infant. I went through catechism for a year or so, and went through the Rite of Confirmation at 13. I’m still a Catholic, though not quite as active as my mother wants me to be.”

“Whoa, you have a mother?” Peter’s innocent enthusiasm makes Quentin’s heart ache.

“No, Peter. I sprang up fully grown from the bowels of Hell. Of course I have a mother!”

“What’s she like?” Peter bends down to pick up his discarded boxers. He slides them up his legs and sits down on the edge of the bed.

Quentin follows Peter’s lead. He opens the top drawer in the dresser and takes out a clean pair of boxers. He puts them on and joins Peter, sitting a few inches away from him.

“She’s great,” he gushes. “She’s pretty blunt, though. To the point of being rude. She didn’t have much of a filter to begin with, and in her twilight years, what little she does have is fading fast. She’s an actress - she was, anyway, before she retired. She did a lot of commercials and had bit parts on a few soap operas in the 80’s and 90’s.”

“Really. What’s her name?” Peter leans in close. Quentin has his rapt attention.

“Henrietta Beck, but she acted under the name Etta Rinehart.”

“Wow!” Peter’s jaw drops. Without thinking he squeezes Quentin’s hand. “Etta Rinehart is your mom?! She’s one of Aunt May’s favorite actresses!”

“Yeah?” Quentin smiles in delight. He cups Peter’s chin in his hand and caresses his lips with his thumb. Peter impulsively kisses his thumb. He opens his mouth and gently nips it, watching hot sparks flash in Quentin’s cerulean eyes.

“Yep. I might have had a little crush on her, too. I saw that commercial she did for that shampoo brand that smells like blueberries and lavender. She must have been in her 40’s then, at least, but I thought she was pretty hot.”

“Oh, yeah?” Quentin grins broadly. He pulls Peter toward him and nuzzles his neck. “Do you think I look anything like her?”

“Oh. Well, um.” Peter clears his throat. “I wouldn’t have known you were related unless you mentioned it. You don’t really look much alike, but you have her eyes.”

“Is that right. I have my mother's eyes... ” 

Peter takes an excited breath as Quentin leans forward to kiss him. He sticks his tongue in Peter’s mouth. Peter pulls his tongue between his teeth and nibbles the sides and tip of it. It is gentle and relaxed, a welcome relief from the combative damage he inflicted last night.

Peter kisses him until Quentin begins to tremble. He feels himself growing harder. He’s just getting ready to do something about that, when Peter breaks away. His lips are swollen, his eyes heady.

He reaches over and pats Quentin’s shoulder, as if to get his attention. Like he’s not already front and center, Quentin’s entire world.

“Quentin,” he whines. “I’m starving! What have you got to eat around here?”


	12. Relax (Take It Easy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter feels conflicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, so I know this chapter is very short compared to my previous work. Honestly, I'm just kind of rushing to get Peter and Quentin settled in Norway so I can start on the next 'phase' of the fic.
> 
> For something that started out having no real plot, this fic has taken on a life of its own. I have the basic outline for how it will eventually pan out, but in the meantime I'm open to input and suggestions.

After their first night, Quentin and Peter do not have relations again on the trip.

It is a lesson in patience for them both. Having tasted the forbidden fruit, Peter’s appetite is whetted.

He approaches Quentin on several occasions and tries to goad him. He corners Quentin in the galley as he is washing dishes after dinner. He walks in on him when he gets out of the shower.

The most trying temptation of all occurs when Quentin walks in on Peter pleasing himself. On that occasion, he throws a sheet over Peter and locks himself in the bathroom.

Despite the enticement, they still sleep together, facing away from each other. 

Sometimes, Peter locks himself in the bedroom. He screams, slams drawers, and tears the covers off the bed. Although he has a master key, Quentin waits until Peter unlocks the door to come in and organize the room.

In order to help him adapt to his impending life in Norway, Quentin serves Peter traditional Norwegian dishes. 

He catches cod fish and makes lutefisk and torskesuppe on alternating nights. 

He supplements the bland fare with mashed potatoes, green peas from a can, or canned biscuits. 

The worst encounter of their voyage occurs on the last night. That night, Peter goes on a rampage. Quentin watches impassively as Peter swipes the glass bowls and cups to the floor with his arm. They shatter, but he doesn’t react. This enrages Peter more.

“Do something!” he yells. He picks up the ladle and storms toward Quentin. He backs the taller man into a corner and starts to beat him. Quentin grunts with each blow, but does not lift a hand to defend himself or try to stop him.

“I’m tired of eating this same old shit. It’s boring. Why don’t you fight back? Fight me, or fuck me. Do something! Come on, Beck, let’s see some of your magic mojo. Come **ON** , hit me. You’re so weak. I can’t believe I was nabbed by a pathetic, pedophile bastard like you! Hit me, you asshole! Come on, you faggot, hit me!”

He beats Quentin until his arm is tired, until blood mixes with the soup spilled on the parquet tiles. Quentin moans and staggers on his feet. He grips the counter top to steady himself.

It’s not enough. Peter watches Quentin let go of the counter and collapse. He lets go of the soup ladle. It clatters to the ground. He sits down on the floor behind Quentin.

He is unconscious when Peter lifts him, his hands under Quentin’s armpits, but wakes again, groaning, as Peter folds his legs beneath him and cushions his head in his lap. Peter presses the back of his hand to Quentin’s forehead. His skin is cool and clammy.

“What did you think you were doing?” Peter asks angrily. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

Quentin closes his eyes and opens them. 

A tendril of chestnut brown hair comes loose and lays across his face, covering his bloodied, broken nose and trailing down his bruised cheek.

“Help you,” he mumbles weakly. 

“Help me?” Peter echoes. “Mary, Mother of God, _help_ me?”

“Have to...satisfy your urges...somehow. I don’t want to...make you do things you don’t want to anymore...”

“Quentin, what are you talking about? You let me beat the shit out of you because you think I’m angry about you popping my berry? What the hell do you think I’ve been doing? For the past two weeks I’ve almost jumped you - twice! - to try to get you in the sack again. I’m not just playing around with you, I _want_ you to!”

“You do?” Quentin mumbles in the most pitiful tone Peter’s ever heard from him.

“Yes!” he says emphatically.

“ _Gottverdammt_!” Quentin says coarsely, and passes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lutefisk and torskesuppe are both traditional Norwegian dishes. 
> 
> Lutefisk is made of dried, salted cod fish and lye. It is commonly served with mashed potatoes, peas, meatballs, or bacon.
> 
> Torskesuppe is a creamy thick cod soup, usually seasoned with garlic or pepper and with chopped onions or other vegetables.
> 
> "Gottverdammt" is German for "goddammit." This is pure conjecture, but I'm making the assumption that Quentin Beck is of mostly German descent, and that he has some familiarity with the language. The truth is I'm a massive nerd enamored with genealogy and languages.


	13. Just Go With It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin takes measures.

It takes two weeks to get to their destination. 

The yacht slowly crosses the North Sea and the Norwegian Sea. During the trip - with the obvious exception of their last vat of torskesuppe - Peter has eaten most of what Quentin puts in front of him. He gains weight. 

By the time they arrive at the marina in Bøkfjorden, Quentin estimates he weighs approximately 105 lbs.

He is still very thin and frail, but Quentin is pleased overall with his progress. He steps onto the dock and ties the yacht to a timber piling. Peter trails after him. After two weeks at sea, his head spins and his legs shake.

Quentin reaches out a hand to steady him. Peter scowls and slaps his hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me,” he growls. “I’ve got it.”

“OK, Peter.” Quentin smiles sadly and raises his hands in a signal of surrender. 

He dares to hope that after last night, Peter has vented the worst of his fury and frustration. If that proves not to be the case, he is prepared to bear the brunt of it.

It is no less than what he deserves. 

Quentin shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and makes his way toward town. Apparently having no other choice, Peter follows. Like Quentin, he is dressed in jeans, boots, and a long-sleeved red flannel shirt with suspenders. “Like a damn lumberjack,” Peter mutters under his breath.

Quentin ignores the teen’s grumbling. He doesn’t fault him for being annoyed. The biggest downside to their secret identities being known around the world is that now, they’ll never be able to stop running. 

Quentin rues his selfishness and stupidity. He knows that 3,000 miles is not enough distance to put between themselves and Peter’s aunt. If there’s one thing Quentin has learned from his research, it’s that May Parker loves Peter more than life itself.

When - not if - she dries out and gets back in her right mind, she will do whatever it takes to find him. With the intel and resources provided by S.H.I.E.L.D. and Stark Industries, she will search for him to the ends of the earth.

Quentin knows his days with Peter are numbered. Nonetheless, he is determined to make the most of the time they have together. Preferably with Peter’s cooperation.

As they enter the town proper, Quentin hears Peter gasp. “This place is unreal! Where are we?” Quentin smiles at his childish excitement.

“Kirkenes,” he answers. “Norway’s northeastern coast. We’re only about 7 miles from Russia.”

“Cool.” Peter’s mood brightens considerably as he takes in the view. The solid red, yellow, white and blue houses are like something out of a storybook. The sky is gorgeous, such a bright and brilliant blue that Peter’s eyes hurt.

He turns his attention to Quentin. The flannel cloth seems to bunch at his back and shoulders, accentuating the curve of his muscles.

Peter wants to reach out and touch them. He wants to shove Quentin into some alley and have his way with him.

“Shit.” Quentin stops so abruptly Peter almost bumps into him. “I don’t remember where my house is."

“You actually live here?” Peter’s eyebrows rise. He sounds skeptical.

“Yeah, sort of, for part of the year. I have a summer home around here somewhere.” He licks his lips and stares at Peter. Then he lifts his head and laughs dazedly. “I can’t remember how to get to my own damn house!” 

He shakes his head. He looks around him as if the answer might be in the sky or show up on one of the buildings. In the morning light he looks scary enough to frighten passersby. The small illusion he has cast to blur his features begins to fade.

Quentin groans and exhales sharply. “I really can’t remember. I’m sorry, Peter.”

“I must have hit you too hard,” Peter murmurs sheepishly. “I think I gave you a concussion.”

“You must have done.” Quentin puts his hand on his blackened eye and slides his fingers cautiously down his bruised and bloodied face. “Jesus, kid, you beat the shit out of me. You broke my nose and gave me one heck of a shiner.”

“I’m sorry.” Peter takes Quentin’s hand and sniffs. He sounds like he’s about to cry. “Come on, let’s go sit down somewhere.”

“Mmmkay.” He rests his arm on Peter’s shoulders and tries not to lean too heavily against him. 

The nearest building that is open is the town’s main church. Peter pauses for a moment outside the structure to appreciate its simple beauty, the trio of white crosses painted high above the entrance.

He enters to find the sanctuary empty. He sits in the back pew and eases Quentin down beside him. The pews are green, the walls white like the church’s exterior. 

The crucifix in the nave is varying shades of red and gold, the Christ figure clearly meant to be the central focus.

Peter stares at the cross, and reflexively makes the sign of the cross again. “Hey, Quentin,” he whispers. He gingerly nudges his side. “Is this a Catholic church?”

“Uh-uh,” he mutters sluggishly. “It’s part of the national church - Lutheran.” His words slur together. “Peter, what’re you doing...we’re sitting ducks here. We have to get to a...hotel.”

“And we will. But first, we’re going to take a few minutes for you to catch your breath. I don’t want you passing out again.”

Quentin scoffs. “That’s cute, you think a little bump on the head’s going to knock me out. Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve underestimated me.”

“I’d rather not take my chances. No offense, Quentin, but you’re a little on the heavy side. Normally I’d be able to bench press you, but with the muscle mass I’ve lost in the last month, I’m not risking it.”

“S-screw you. I’m not that heavy.” Quentin’s eyes begin to droop. His head lolls and rests on Peter’s shoulder. Peter sits still.

He doesn’t know why he’s staying with him, except that he’s bewitched or just an idiot. With his battered face and his inflamed, blackened eye, Quentin looks more than ever like a demon cast down from heaven.

“Hey, Quentin.” Peter snaps his fingers and pinches the skin of his neck. “You have to stay awake, man. I don’t know my way around here. I don’t know what to do.”

“Your concern is touching, Peter, truly.” Quentin opens his eyes and blinks rapidly as the teen comes into sharper focus. “But just give me a minute, and I’ll be alright.”

He roots around in his jeans pocket and pulls out a small black billfold. He flips it open and gives it to Peter. There are two laminated photographs in the side folds, one of himself and one of Quentin.

In Quentin’s passport photo, he is wearing the same getup. He smiles at the camera, and there is a hint of sleaze, a sort of come hither gleam in his eyes that makes Peter’s pants feel tight. 

His height, weight, and date of birth are carefully recorded. There are official stamps from Los Angeles, New York City, Venice, Paris, London, and Oslo. The only jarring, bald lie is the name: LUDWIG ELMORE RINEHART.

Peter’s passport is similarly doctored. The photo is one he doesn’t remember posing for, also wearing the annoying lumberjack outfit. His stats are accurate, but the assumed name is so stupidly bad he can’t help but laugh out loud. STANLEY BENJAMIN REILLY.

“Really, you couldn’t come up with a better name than that? For me or for you? I mean, I’m sorry to say it, Quentin, but -”

“Ludwig,” Quentin interrupted patiently. “If we’re going to have a prayer’s chance of pulling this off, you have to get used to calling me Ludwig. At least in public.”

“Um, OK, whatever. So, Ludwig, which hotel are we going to stay at tonight?”

“We’d better get a room at the Hotel Wessel. It’s nice enough, and it’s what I can afford. It’s not too far away, maybe 1⁄4 of a mile or so. You’ll have to help me stay upright, but I think it’s safe to say the worst is over.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Ludwig. You know better than anyone that the minute you start saying things can’t get any worse, bad shit starts to happen. Eh, maybe you’re right on this one. I hope you are.”

Peter stands up. He supports Quentin on the way out of the church. The second they descend the small staircase, he turns to Quentin and grins widely.

“I’ll go along with it for now, but let’s get one thing straight right now. I don’t know who this ‘Stanley’ is, but it sure as hell isn’t me. Since we’re going to be using made up names, you can call me ‘Ben.’ ”


	14. Into The Ocean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter takes charge by giving in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I want to swim away, but don't know how  
> Sometimes I feel just like I'm falling in the ocean  
> Let the waves up and take me down  
> Let the hurricane set in motion, yeah  
> Let the rain of what I feel right now come down  
> Let the rain fall down."
> 
> -Blue October

“Quentin,” Peter says softly. He shakes his shoulder and says his name again, more insistently. “Quentin!”

He has slept for 12 hours straight, from the moment they first checked into the suite in the Hotel Wessel under their assumed names. 

Propped on two pillows, he hogs the whole bed, his leg thrown across the side where Peter should lay.

He has shaken Quentin’s leg with both hands. He has pushed his leg back to his side with both hands, only for it to spring right back. 

He has raised his voice, let Quentin know how little he appreciates being abducted, ostensibly for the sole purpose of satisfying the man’s carnal desires.

He curses Quentin, rails against him, calls him a pervert and a pedophile. In his frustration, Peter has slapped his cheek, removed his shirt. He has blown raspberries into Quentin’s bare chest, even kissed him.

So far, nothing has woken him. This alarms Peter, since Quentin usually stirs at the slightest of sounds. Yet he breathes easily, the steady rise and fall of his chest a comfort.

He sleeps the easy, untroubled sleep of a child, as if Peter is watching over him. Which, in a way, he is. 

In the early afternoon he lays down on the bed in the opposite direction, with his feet level with Quentin’s head. He sleeps for a few hours, using the man’s leg as his pillow.

No one storms into the room to arrest them. No one comes banging on the door. When Peter wakes, he takes the billfold out of Quentin’s pocket and examines its contents.

In addition to the false passports, he has a small, random baggie of what looks like smelling salts and a few folded bills of foreign currency. 

Neither British pounds sterling or euros, Peter supposes that they are Norwegian kroner notes.

He doesn’t know the exchange rate to U.S. dollars, but judging from the small amount, and from what Quentin said himself, he is running low on funds.

Peter wonders what they are going to do for money. He’s never had a job before, but he figures he could take a job in a restaurant or tourist shop. There is a convenience store not very far from the hotel.

He doesn’t speak Norwegian, but he is a fast learner. Maybe there is a language class he can enroll in through the local university or community center. 

In any case, Peter assumes that most of the locals are at least conversant in the basics of English.

He almost feels guilty and entitled for thinking so, even while he knows it’s just the way of things. As French was the diplomatic language of the 18th century, English is of the 21st century.

Peter turns to look out the window before trying to wake him. At 9:00 at night, the sun is still high in the sky, and will be for several hours yet. “Quentin!” he calls again, and this time his eyelids flicker and he sighs a little.

It should not feel so good when he says his name. He does not want to become attached to him. He tries to think of MJ, to conjure her features in his mind. He loves MJ.

For Quentin Beck - Mysterio - the man who fooled the world into thinking he was a hero from a parallel world, who caused massive casualties and tried to kill his friends, tried to kill him at least twice, and exposed his identity to the entire world, Peter does not want to feel lust or friendship or anything remotely like it.

“Quentin!” he nearly shouts. This time he smiles and turns toward him, moaning faintly. “Get up!” Peter orders. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Alright, alright.” Quentin grunts and exhales slowly. He closes a fist and raises his arm. “Oh my God,” he groans without opening his eyes. He flexes his fingers. He opens his eyes and frowns. “I can barely move.”

“It’ll be worse tomorrow,” Peter says grimly. Quentin grins and laughs bitterly. “That’ll be fun. At least now I have something to look forward to.”

“Hmm.” Peter reaches over to feel Quentin’s forehead. He indulges in the temptation to smooth his fingers through the man’s hair. It is astonishingly thick and soft, the texture reminding Peter of lamb’s wool.

“You have a little bit of a fever. I should go to the convenience store and get you something. A pain reliever/fever reducer.”

Quentin shakes his head. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but there’s no need. I have something that can help me out. I don’t have much, but there should be enough for the two of us.”

“The two of us? But I’m not even sick,” Peter protests. Quentin stares at him, an eyebrow lifted, until Peter grasps the innuendo. “Oh,” he finally murmurs. “Oh!”

“Now you get it. Be a good boy and bring me my billfold.”

“Um, about that.” Peter tries his best to look innocent, batting his eyelashes like a bashful flirt. “I might have taken a glance at it when it fell out of your pocket. You tossed and turned a lot,” he adds lamely.

“That’s alright.” Quentin grips Peter’s shoulder. He presses the skin between his fingers, massaging the muscle until Peter moans like a waking dreamer.

He lays down and curls up at Quentin’s side. Docile and eager to please, like a puppy or a groupie. Quentin tugs Peter’s shirt out from his coveralls. He reaches a hand underneath to stroke the teen’s stomach.

Peter clenches his hand. A look of fear briefly crosses his face. He whines and rubs his thumb against Quentin’s palm.

“It’s alright, Peter,” he repeats. “You’re alright. Just tell me what you did with the little plastic bag.”

“It’s - I left it folded up in your wallet. And I p-put that back in your p-pocket.” Peter stutters, desperate for Quentin’s approval. ‘Whatever you do,’ he thinks, ‘please don’t be angry with me.’

He’s not. Quentin reaches into his pocket and finds the wallet right where Peter said it was. He opens the little bag of salt crystals and upends it onto his stomach. He takes a tattered green bill and hands it to Peter.

It’s a 50 kroner note. On one side, there is a portrait of a bearded, bald man with glasses. On the other, there is a pretty depiction of white water lilies in a pond.

“In case you’re wondering, that guy on the front is Peter Christen Asbjørnsen. He compiled Norwegian legends and folktales. I guess you could say he is to the Norwegians what Hans Christen Anderson is to the Danes.”

“Neat.” Peter says. He doesn’t particularly care, but finds interesting that the man shares his name. It really isn’t that remarkable; Peter is one of the most popular names in any language, after all.

Quentin watches him expectantly. Peter rolls the bill up tightly. “Um, shouldn’t you be the one doing this?” he asks uncertainly. “You’re the one who needs a little...jolt...to make you more alert, right? Why exactly do I have to do this?”

The corners of Quentin’s mouth quirk with the hint of a languid smile. He leans over to kiss Peter’s chin and the front part of his neck, gently biting and sucking the skin until he leaves a small purple hickey.

“You don’t have to do anything, Peter. You are one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, you make your own decisions. As sophisticated as you are, though, there’s still an awful lot you have to learn.”

“You mean, I still have a lot to learn about ‘the way of things’?” Peter relishes the way Quentin flinches and coughs uncomfortably. “Yeah,” he concedes sheepishly.

“That’s right, ‘the way of things’. You’ve been around the world a time or two, but just a small part of it. There is so much more to the world than what you’ve known, or what you think you know. Like your rather simplistic view of humanity. For you, a person is either all good, or all bad. Black and white, no gray areas, no room for doubts…”

“Quentin, shut up.” Peter interrupts his monologue with a kiss so deep and passionate it leaves him breathless.

They are both gasping when Peter breaks away. Quentin touches his swollen lips. 

He regards Peter warily, the leader of the pack assessing the young challenger to determine if he is worth the hassle. 

“In case nobody’s ever told you, you talk way too much, Quentin.” 

Peter shakes off his water wings and takes a running leap off the pier and into the ocean.


	15. Forget-Me-Not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pack your bags, readers, we're getting ready to go on a feels trip!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Verzeih mir, bleib bei mir  
> Und ich sagte noch, 'vergissmeinnicht'  
> Ich schenck dir zum Abschied ein letztes lich  
> Vergissmeinnicht.
> 
> Forgive me, stay by me  
> I've already said, 'forget-me-not.'  
> I give you one last light as a farewell;  
> Forget-me-not."
> 
> -Eisbrecher

“Peter. Hey, Peter. **Hey!** ”

Peter wakes with a start. He blinks and rubs his eyes as he reorients himself to his surroundings. He is in a top floor parlor suite, at the Hotel Wessel in Kirkenes, Norway. 

The sun is still up, but the sun stays up around the clock, 24 hours a day, according to the guidebook Peter has found rummaging through the chest of drawers.

The room is kept dark with blackout curtains. Quentin is fast asleep beside him, his arm thrown over Peter’s waist. He snores quietly, his breath rustling his hair. Seeing no one, Peter nestles more closely against Quentin’s side. He reacts by tightening his hold on the teen.

Peter laces their fingers together and kisses the back of Quentin’s hand. His heart starts to palpitate, his eyes darting around the room again in terror. This can’t be happening to him. Not here, not now, of all times and places.

He clenches his eyes shut even as the seemingly disembodied voice continues to address him. His heightened clairvoyance - his ‘Peter Tingle’ - wreaks havoc on his nervous system. He presses his hands over his ears. 

“Peter, you might as well answer me. You know I’m not going anywhere until you do. Come on, kid, don’t do this to me. Let’s talk; we’re long overdue for one.”

“A-are we?” Peter whispers. The occasional stutter he’s developed in the wake of the Blip has become glaringly obvious in the last 48 hours. “W-we j-j-just talked a f-few days ago…”

“Oh, d-d-d-did we?” Tony appears, sitting in the beige recliner cater-cornered to the bed. He grips the armrests so tightly that even in the dimness, Peter can see that his knuckles are white.

“About this time two weeks ago, you were clinging to Happy, begging **me** not to let this psychopathic asswipe kidnap you. So what happened between then and now? Wait, wait, don’t tell me. I think I remember...you let said-psychopath-who-shall-not-be-named give you a blowjob, and when I asked you what the hell you thought you were doing, you said you were sorry. But you aren’t sorry at all. ‘Cause here he is, and here you are, and the blowjobs abound!”

“I-it’s not l-like that, Mr. Stark. H-he didn’t g-give me another b-blowjob…”

“Oh, you sure as hell could’ve fooled me! I think that’s about the most accurate term to describe letting a guy snort blow off your dick. So what do _you_ call it?”

“I d-d-don’t know…” Peter’s voice quivers. “I mean it w-wasn’t just b-blow. Th-there were some s-smelling s-salts mixed in with it…”

“Oh my God, Peter, do you think that makes any damn difference? No, really, I’m seriously asking, _do you?_ Because if it was just about the blow, I might be able to handle it. If it was just about you getting some nookie, I could handle that, too. I’m not gonna lie, though, kid: the thought of you having adult nap time in general is pretty cringeworthy. But that's beside the point here. After everything I’ve taught you, everything I’ve done for you, I swear to God I hoped you’d turn out better than this. **You’re breaking my heart, Peter.** ”

“W-whatever. And y-you b-broke mine a l-long time ago.” Peter opens his eyes and stares at Tony blankly. This time around, Tony is wearing the exact same ensemble as when he took back Spider-Man’s outfit. The lump in his throat dissolves.

“You p-promised you’d be here with me. You promised you’d protect me. _You said you **loved** me,_ Tony. You lied about the first part, who’s to say you weren’t lying about that?”

“Now, wait just a minute, bucko. Who was the one who sought you out and recruited you as an Avenger in the first place, hmm? Do you think Fury or Strange or anybody of consequence in the superhuman world would have given you a second glance if I hadn’t vouched for you?”

Tony leans down and shakes his finger in Peter’s face. “You were **nothing** before I met you, Peter Parker. You’re nothing without me. I made you, kid. You think because you lost your mommy and daddy, and then your uncle, that you know the first thing about loss? You have no idea what loss is.”

Peter starts to hyperventilate. He rolls a little away from Quentin as he bunches his hands into fists and pounds the mattress. Quentin mutters and shifts beside him. He reaches out a hand and gropes blindly. His hand finds Peter’s hip and he pulls him back toward him.

“ _ **I lost you,**_ ” Peter moans dolefully. “And you were the greatest loss of my life. Don’t tell me I don’t know anything about loss, Mr. Stark. _That’s bullshit, and you know it!_ Why are you being so cruel to me all of a sudden?”

Tony clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes.

“Because, you spoiled little shit, I’m trying to teach you a lesson. Because, clearly, I didn’t do a good enough job in the year I had you under my wing. I never left you, Peter. I’ve always been right here, watching over you. But, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I’m wasting my time. Maybe, since you’ve got your little frenemy-with-benefits, you don’t need me anymore. I might cramp the little cool, cynical vibe you’re trying so hard to project. Happy trails, Mr. Parker, it’s been real.”

Tony slowly starts to fade. “Wait!” Peter cries urgently. Tony lifts an eyebrow and waits for him to speak.

“If you go now,” Peter says icily, “I never want to see you again.”

“Mm, OK, that works for me.”

In a flash, Tony’s gone.

Peter’s anguished wails wake Quentin, and nearly everyone else in the building.


	16. When Under Ether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter helps Quentin out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When under ether the mind comes alive  
> But conscious of nothing, but the will to survive."
> 
> -PJ Harvey

Peter can’t calm down until Quentin dips into the last of his sedatives, 4mg of alprazolam. He lays a small white round tablet on Peter’s tongue. Filling a small plastic cup with tap water, Quentin cradles the back of Peter’s head and lifts it to his lips.

Discreetly, he also reaches into his pocket, takes out what looks like an asthma inhaler, and sprays a small amount into Peter’s mouth.

He holds the teen as he silently weeps and shivers in despair. Peter soon falls asleep, clinging to Quentin like a life raft in a storm at sea.

He is pale, his skin clammy. His eyes flicker wildly beneath his lids. Quentin feels his heart pounding as he presses his fingertips to the pulse points under his jaw. 

Peter’s fingers stick to Quentin’s forearm, a help rather than a hindrance as he stands him up. They leave the hotel slowly, Quentin supporting Peter as they walk the streets of Kirkenes.

Most of the citizens in their path ignore them. A few stop to greet ‘Doktor Rinehart.’ Quentin conjures a small barrier to obscure the view of their faces. Lethargic and still in pain from the beating, his powers of illusion falter. 

A few passersby begin to notice his blackened eye, the blue and purple bruises on his cheeks and forehead. They glance from Quentin to Peter, visibly under the influence of drugs. They chuckle, offer witty condolences and advise Quentin to choose his battles wisely.

Quentin shrugs and smiles darkly. Dr. Ludwig Rinehart has lived in Kirkenes off and on long enough for virtually everyone to know his face, if not his name. 

The residents of Kirkenes have grown accustomed to the sight of the esteemed doctor walking the streets at all hours. Anonymity is something he has had to sacrifice in his ascension.

Quentin can’t quite imagine what Peter must be enduring. He’s been through his share of trials and tribulations in life. The main difference between the two of them, as far as he can tell, is that Peter has always relied on someone else to hold his hand and guide him through. Quentin has only ever needed himself.

Peter regains awareness when they come to Quentin’s house. 

The building is the former chapel of the Rineharts, Quentin’s maternal family. Constructed in the 1930’s by his grandfather Georg, a German expat and cinematographer, the chapel was built according to the architectural design of stave churches popular in medieval Norway.

Being exceedingly wealthy and insufferably arrogant, Georg Rinehart kept himself sequestered from the townsfolk, dismissing them as superstitious, ignorant heretics. 

After marrying Inge, the daughter of a local farmer, he had no virtually no further dealings with the citizens of Kirkenes, or with Norway in general.

He instilled in his daughter Henrietta his devout Catholicism and penchant for special effects, and she in turn passed these passions on to Quentin. When she divorced Elmore Beck after 30 years of marriage, Henrietta was forced to sell her property in Norway, and move into a retirement home in California. All except for the stave chapel, which she bequeathed to her son.

Peter leans heavily on Quentin’s side as he unlocks the front door. He enters the foyer and slips out of his boots. He guides Peter over to the daybed and kneels down to pull his boots off as well. He walks over to the wall, and with a flip of the switch the room is encased in bright fluorescent light.

Peter’s pupils dilate as his vision adjusts. He looks around and takes in the spartan, minimal furnishings. In addition to the daybed there is a recliner, a kitchen island, a microwave, and against one whole wall a huge bookshelf. Glaringly absent, there is no TV, bed, or bathroom.

“This is where you live?” Peter speaks in a monotone, still under significant sedation. “Where do you sleep, man? Where do you go to take a leak or a dump? What do you do for fun around here?”

Quentin laughs and pulls Peter up. “This is only the ground floor. Let me give you the grand tour.” 

During the grand tour, Peter discovers the second level. Quentin mounts a small spiral staircase. He eagerly shows Peter the king size bed, the 50” plasma screen TV on the wall, and the small half bath. Peter stifles a groan of disappointment. At least the safehouse had a bathtub.

Sensing the flow of his thoughts, Quentin points toward a pitcher and basin set on top of the toilet tank.

“I know it’s kind of primitive, but most of the time when I take a bath, I just fill _Mormor’s_ old basin with hot water and use a sponge and soap. It’s just as effective as taking a shower, or filling a whole tub with water. This not only saves money and water, it also keeps me from sitting in my own wet dirt.”

“Wow, you sound really defensive.” Peter grins and sticks his thumb in the air. “It’s fine with me, dude. At least you, y’know, actually bathe and stuff.”

Peter walks into the bathroom to study the basin set. The pitcher and basin are snow white ceramic with a blue floral pattern. “Quentin,” Peter yells, his voice abruptly shrill, as if he’s shouting down a well. “This is freaking beautiful. I think I want you to fuck me, or give me a bath. Know what, let’s do both.”

Before Quentin can respond, Peter takes all his clothes off. He neatly folds the flannel button up, and matches the jean legs seam to seam. Next he slides his boxers down his legs, and peels his socks off.

Quentin ogles Peter as he turns the faucet on and fills the pitcher with warm water. He is transfixed. The teen’s movements are as lithe and dainty as a dancer’s as he sets the basin on the ground and pours the water into it.

He looks up at Quentin and frowns. “Where’s the soap and sponge? And why are you still wearing clothes?”

Quentin tries his best not to rip his clothes off in his eagerness. He doesn’t fold them, but tosses them down on the floor beside Peter’s. “Look in the cabinet above the sink,” he says hoarsely. “You’ll find what you need in there.”

Oh, right, the cabinet over the sink. Peter opens it to find various bottles, some with pills and some filled with cologne. The writing is all in Norwegian. Peter momentarily wonders what kind of cologne Quentin wears and makes a mental note to ask him later.

The sponge is a small oval loofah. Peter picks it up, and underneath finds what looks like a giant set of metal earrings. He picks them up and turns to Quentin quizzically.

“What are these for? You don’t have any piercings, do you?”

“Um, no. Those are for...give ‘em here, I’ll just show you.”

“Alright.” Peter hands over the rings. He watches with interest as Quentin slips them over his flaccid cock. He dips the loofah in the basin, wrings it out, and rubs it over the lower half of Quentin’s waist, tantalizingly close to his pubic area.

 _“Gud i himmelen, hva gjør du med meg?”_ Peter smiles cluelessly and keeps rubbing him. He scrubs the skin of his stomach and chest, and kneels down. “Time to wash your legs! But first…” Peter dips the sponge back in the basin and wrings it out again.

He starts with Quentin’s thighs. He scrubs the skin so hard it begins to peel. Quentin sucks in air sharply when Peter turns his head and blows air on his manhood. He instantly hardens. The rings constrict around him, and his skin takes on a bluish tint.

“Huh, look at that.” Peter’s eyes shine with mischievous glee. “Let me help you out a little.”

“Peter, wait…”

He doesn’t. In one fell swoop, Peter opens his mouth wide and swallows him to the hilt. Quentin moans raggedly and mutters a litany of curses in German, Norwegian, and English. “Oh my God... _ach, fick dich...nei, knulle meg!_ ”

He grips Peter’s hair. He trembles and yanks the roots. Peter pulls back until just the tip of Quentin’s cock is in his mouth. He closes his fingers around the base and dives down. He repeats this action, bobbing up and down until he holds Peter’s head and surges against his mouth, coming furiously with a raucous sob.

Peter whimpers and cries out as he too comes, drenching Quentin’s legs and thighs with his sperm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> "God in heaven, what are you doing to me?"  
> "...oh, fuck you...no, fuck me!"


	17. The Doctor Is In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter learns to share and meets a new friend.

When Peter wakes the next morning, the space beside him is empty. He reaches out and touches the place anyway. The mattress dips where Quentin lay, still warm. Peter has no way of knowing what time it is. He sits up in bed and stretches his arms over his head.

His muscles burn, and there is an insistent, throbbing ache in his rear. He wonders how long he should expect to feel such discomfort after an interlude with Quentin. He doesn’t mind it, necessarily, in the short term. Hopefully, the more he tries Quentin on for size, the more comfortable he’ll be. Like breaking in a new pair of shoes.

Peter smiles at the comparison as he makes up the bed. He places the comforter under the pillows and folds the corners of the flat sheet and throw blanket under the mattress. When she worked as a CNA, Aunt May taught the then 5-year-old Peter how to fold his bed sheets to give them hospital corners. Peter’s heart twinges at the potent, unbidden memory.

With the bed properly made up, Peter turns his attention to the chest of drawers and what he will wear. Quentin has already made the decision for him. Draped over the top of the chest is a literal sailor suit. With the cobalt blue slacks, white short-sleeved shirt with red trim, white hat and red sash meant to be tied at the neck, Peter will look like an anthropomorphic incarnation of the Norwegian flag.

It’s so blatantly patronizing and controlling Peter can’t decide if he should laugh or cry. He does neither, making up his mind to confront Quentin tout de suite. He slips on the bathrobe Quentin left hanging on the doorknob to the half bath - dark green terry cloth, of course - and stomps down the stairs like an enraged child.

He sees Quentin, seated in the recliner. From the long sleeved undershirt - with the sleeves rolled up to his elbow -, dress slacks, argyle sweater vest and thick rimmed Buddy Holly glasses, he looks like a talk therapist from the 1990’s. His expression is bright and relaxed. When he tosses his head back and laughs, Peter feels a cold, lead rage flood his bloodstream. He clears his throat loudly to get his attention.

When Quentin’s gaze shifts to him, Peter huffs and taps his fingertips angrily on the banister. “Good morning. Do you want to tell me what the hell kind of joke you’re trying to pull with that getup?” A dark, furious scowl contorts his features, but it fades so quickly Peter’s not sure if he imagined it or not. It’s then that Peter notices they aren’t alone.

A stranger is sitting on the daybed, one leg tucked behind the other, arms folded neatly on his lap. He is young, around Peter’s age. He has thick, unruly sandy blond hair and dark brown eyes. The buttoned blue blazer, khaki slacks, pressed white undershirt and solid red tie he wears give him away as a schoolboy.

“Oh. Um, hello.” Peter smiles awkwardly and runs a hand through his hair. “S-sorry. I wasn’t aware that we had company.” The stranger politely returns the smile. He briskly gets up and walks over to the staircase.

“Hello. That is quite alright, it is a bit early yet for company. My name is Vilhjalmur Bredeik, it’s very nice to meet you.” He speaks English with the crisp, melodic sing-song cadence typical of the local accent. He doesn’t seem perturbed by Peter’s presence, nor the fact that he just descended the staircase wearing nothing more than a knotted bathrobe. He extends a hand toward Peter.

Peter takes his proffered hand, and tries not to seem too obvious as he gives Vilhjalmur a once over. His hand is ridiculously, silkily smooth, like he keeps it moisturized and gets manicures regularly. He doesn’t appear to do any sort of manual labor, and aside from the fat class ring on his middle finger, he doesn’t wear jewelry of any sort.

“Hello, Vilhjalmur,” Peter says, doing his best to imitate the stranger’s pronunciation. “It’s nice to meet you, too. My name’s Ben. Ben Reilly.” He glances over at Quentin to see if he’s done the right thing. From Quentin’s nod and thin, tight lipped smile, Peter guesses he has done.

“I’m sorry to be so forward, but _Vilhjalmur_...that’s quite an interesting name. If you don’t mind my asking…”

“Oh, I don’t mind at all.” The boy’s smile remains plastered on his face. “It’s an Icelandic variant of ‘William.’ You see, Ben, my mother wanted me to have ‘an uncommon name, a good, strong name,’ so she chose to give me one that would be sure to set me apart from my peers.”

“Right. Vil-Vilham -”

“You can call me Will, if it’s easier.” He grins in appreciation of Peter’s efforts. His teeth are so shiny and bright they hurt his eyes.

“So,” Will intones hurriedly. “I’d better be on my way. School will start in a few hours.”

“A few hours? Why the rush, then?” Peter’s not exactly keen to be left alone with Quentin after his little performance.

Will waves his hand dismissively in front of his face, as if he’s swatting away a fly. “I attend the British International School in Stavanger. That’s about 2,300 kilometers away. Even taking Papa’s jet, I’ll be lucky to get there in time. But, since I heard he’s back in Kirkenes, and I was passing through, I wanted to stop in and say hello to Doctor Rinehart.”

“And I’m so glad you did, Vilhjalmur.” Quentin stands up and walks over to them. With one hand pressing into Will’s back, he guides him toward the door. “Look us up the next time you’re in the area. You and Ben can get better acquainted.”

“Righto, then.” In the doorway Will beams and turns to wave one last time.

“Well, Ben. It’s been a pleasure. 'Bye for now!" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will is portrayed by and was inspired by Thomas Brodie-Sangster.


	18. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin takes what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Into this night I wander,  
> It's morning that I dread,  
> Another day of knowing of  
> The path I fear to tread,  
> Oh, into the sea of waking dreams  
> I follow without pride,  
> Nothing stands between us here  
> And I won't be denied."
> 
> -Sarah McLachlan
> 
> **Warning: this chapter contains graphic violence and subject matter that may be triggering to some readers. Please proceed with caution.**

Life soon settles into a rhythm in the stave chapel in Parnassveien. 

Beginning at 9:00 in the morning, various visitors stop by to speak with Quentin - ‘Doctor Rinehart.’ Quentin explains that he is indeed a therapist, certified to practice in Norway, with a doctorate in psychology from the University of Oslo. He sees patients in his home five days a week, 9:00AM - 5:00PM, and has done for five years.

With the revolving door of patients coming in and out, Peter sequesters himself on the second floor. He surfs the channels on the TV, the volume low. When he finds it, Peter keeps the TV turned to the BBC Knowledge station. He feels as if he is stranded in the desert, but the familiar sound of his own language gives him a small measure of comfort.

He has given up the fanciful notions of trying to find a job or enrolling in a language class. When he brings it up to Quentin, the man scoffs and shoots him down. “You’ve never worked a day in your life, kid. You have no experience, no credentials. You don’t even speak the language. What do you need a job for?”

Peter bites his lip and holds his tongue. He doesn’t point out that if Quentin would let him sign up for a class with the local community center, he could pick up sufficient Norwegian to be able to navigate in the community. As to why he needs a job, he needs something to do to occupy his mind so he won’t literally go crawling up the walls.

Like at the safehouse in Shetland, he spends most of his time sleeping the days away. He eats whatever Quentin puts in front of him: the brunost, brown cheese spread over flatbread, is his go-to meal. After the confrontation on the yacht with the _torskesuppe_ , he does not make Peter anymore dishes with fish.

For breakfast, there are waffles or _lefse_ \- thinly sliced pancakes made of potatoes, eggs, wheat flour, sugar, and butter. During Quentin’s lunch break, he makes flatbread sandwiches with _brunost_ and _matpakke_ \- sliced meat or vegetables. Occasionally, he will go to the local McDonald’s and bring back Big Macs with fries and large Cokes.

In the early evenings, after working up their appetites with boisterous activity, Peter lies trembling in Quentin’s arms. He goes down the stairs, and comes back with a small bowl of cloud berries. He likes to feed them to Peter from his hands, his eyes crinkling in rapture as the teen eats.

Peter wears the damn sailor suit, and all the other weird little getups Quentin fancies. Page boy, police officer, once even a French maid outfit, complete with a skirt and feather duster. He’s kind of a kinky bastard.

By the start of their third week in Kirkenes, Peter has had enough. He likes the food well enough, and he likes to watch the BBC. He tells himself he enjoys the sex, though by now he has begun to feel that he is nothing more than Quentin’s rentboy. Or - if his suspicions about the little Norwegian boarding school boy are accurate - one of his many rentboys.

Peter hates the jealousy incited by the thought of Quentin - Dr. Ludwig Rinehart - being intimate with anybody else. He’s a thief, a conman, a kidnapper. He’s never felt the need to label this thing - whatever this thing is - between them. He houses, feeds, and clothes Peter, and he in turn fucks Quentin on demand, and therein, he thinks, lies the problem.

On the first morning of the third week, Peter slaps Quentin’s hand away when he reaches for him. “No.” The refusal stuns Peter as much as it does Quentin, who looks as horrified as if he had slapped his face. “What do you mean, _‘no?’_ What’s gotten into you, Peter?” 

**“No!”** Peter repeats, and shoves Quentin’s chest so roughly he stumbles. “I don’t want to do this right now.” Quentin frowns and scratches his chin uncertainly. “What’s gotten into you?” he asks again. He grabs Peter with one hand and, despite his protests, presses the back of his hand to his forehead.

“You don’t have a fever,” he notes. “Your appetite’s gotten a lot better lately. You’ve gained another 5 lbs, at least. Has something happened? You can tell me anything, Peter. You know you can trust me.”

“Can I?” Peter’s voice is shrill as he laughs dizzily. “Let’s see, you used your little parlor tricks to worm your way into Nick Fury’s good graces. You made us think for weeks that you were a refugee from another dimension, a tragic widower who wanted to save our world from total annihilation. All that shit, and then there was London. Need I say more?”

“No,” Quentin murmurs sullenly. “You don’t need to say anymore. All the things I did, Peter, all the crap I put you and your friends through...you have to understand, I was a different person, then. I wasn’t myself.”

“Oh, no?” Peter folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot restlessly. “And _who are you,_ exactly, Dr. Ludwig Elmore Rinehart? Or should I say Quentin Rinehart Beck? Or whatever the hell your real name is. Why should I believe anything you say?”

Quentin gasps, stricken. He holds a hand to his heart, in an admittedly melodramatic display. He appears to be on the verge of tears. Peter feels a smidgen of pity. He holds his ground, but softens his tone. “You know, what you said goes both ways, Quentin. For what it’s worth, _you_ can trust _me_.”

In the blink of an eye, so rapidly that Peter gets whiplash, Quentin knees him in the stomach. He collapses and holds his stomach. He wheezes as Quentin steps behind him. He slings an arm around Peter’s neck and grabs him in a close choke hold.

“Is that so? Well, that’s nice to know. But you really should be nicer to me, Peter,” he croons into his ear. “You be nice to me, and I’ll be nice to you.”

He moves forward, and Peter then remembers they’re both naked. He struggles in Quentin’s vise grip, but can’t turn an inch in any direction. “F-fuck you,” Peter hisses defiantly.

“Oh, you will, don’t worry.” He grabs a fistful of Peter’s hair and drags him down the stairs. The teen’s whimpers and howls of pain as he is bombarded with rug burns turn Quentin on. 

He lifts Peter in his arms and literally throws him into the recliner. Before he can take a breath, Quentin is right in his face, pinning him in the chair with his hands on both armrests.

Peter cries out in terror. He is trapped, naked, robbed of any sense of decency as Quentin leans over him. The man has warned him, assured Peter of what will happen, but he somehow didn’t believe him until this moment. Surely, someone will save him - Aunt May, Tony, maybe even an angel. 

But as Quentin hovers over him, his bestial breath making Peter hold his breath, causing his eyes to water, Peter loses all hope. His body slackens as Quentin reaches down to lick his neck, from the base to his Adam's apple. He turns Peter over, quickly and brutally, and thrusts into him mercilessly without a lubricant of any kind.

It hurts, it hurts and it burns, and Quentin does not stop. Peter’s toes curl into the carpet fibers as Quentin thrusts against him violently. He squeezes his eyes shut and disassociates. 

His mind detaches from his traumatized body, and he travels back in time to when he was a child. Whenever he gets hurt, Aunt May kisses his cheek and rubs his back soothingly. _‘Hey, Peter, it’s alright. It’ll be alright, baby, it won’t hurt forever. It’ll be over soon, I promise.’_

Quentin drives into him harder, invading him more deeply with each thrust until, with one fierce shove, he forces himself wholly inside of him. Peter hears his frantic breath as he comes. He throbs and pulses and burns inside of him. The throbbing pain in Peter’s body dulls into an ache that numbs the pain, smothers and dampens it.

Seized by adrenaline, Peter lifts himself on his elbows in a fierce effort to throw Quentin off. Quentin’s arm comes under his head, pulling him back against the hard, smooth skin of his chest. Peter lifts his arm and savagely bashes Quentin’s stomach with his elbow.

Quentin groans and pulls out of him. He releases Peter and backs away from him so quickly that he’s out of reach before the teen can kick him. Peter moans and falls down, leaning his head on the recliner’s seat. He feels liquid dripping from his rear, blood and semen. He feels woozy, and his vision swims.

Behind him, Quentin exhales sharply, as if he doesn’t quite believe what he’s done. Peter flinches when he places a hand on his back. “D-don’t touch me,” he stutters. “P-p-p-please…” 

Quentin is torn between wanting to heed Peter’s pleas and to relieve his suffering. After he clings to the armrests and sobs pitifully into the cushion, Quentin picks Peter up. 

He flails in his hold, and beats his fists against Quentin’s back and shoulders as he carries him upstairs. He pulls the comforter back and lays the shuddering, whimpering teen down on top of the fitted sheet. 

He pulls the comforter back over him, and summarily leaves.


	19. Don't Swallow The Cap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter lets off steam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have only two emotions  
> Careful fear and dead devotion  
> I can't get the balance right  
> Throw my marbles in the fight  
> I see all the ones I wept for  
> All the things I had it in for  
> I won't cry until I hear  
> 'Cause I was not supposed to be here."
> 
> -The National

This time when he wakes up, Peter is relieved that Quentin is gone. The bed is still made up. There is no indentation from his weight. Peter slept alone last night. He gets out of the bed gingerly, his muscles screaming in agony.

He holds onto the side of the bed until his head stops spinning. He numbly stares at the splotches of dried brown blood on the sheets. It’s a goddamn mess, but he’ll let Quentin worry about it. After last night, it will be the least of his worries.

Peter stumbles into the bathroom and woozily sits down on the toilet seat. He’s stopped bleeding, thankfully. The pain is bad, but it’s not the worst he’s ever felt. Peter laughs sardonically at the thought that the level of pain is the worst part of it. 

His mind wanders as he turns on the faucet. He fills his cupped hands with water, and quickly splashes his face. The water is frigid and makes Peter gasp. It helps him to focus. He fidgets and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

His ‘Peter Tingle’ has quieted down. While the thing was happening, it went into overdrive, rattling his skull and giving him one hell of a headache. His head aches, but it is just a fraction of what he felt last night. Nothing a little paracetamol or Ibuprofen can’t fix.

The sight of his reflection in the mirror makes him retch. He is gaunt and battered, his eyes rimmed with dark circles like he’s been punched. They are watery and bloodshot from broken vessels.

Peter opens the cabinet. He still can’t read Norwegian. The plan is to unscrew the caps of the bottles that look promising, and make some educated guesses. He opens a few bottles, but doesn’t find anything that seems helpful. He pukes into the sink when he sees the loofah and cockrings.

He closes his eyes and grips the edge of the sink. When the nausea passes, he uses a small box labeled **FORSIKTIGHET!** * to push the offensive items toward the back of the cabinet. He takes a closer look at the box. His interest is piqued by the word _‘kodein.’_ Codeine.

Peter has heard of it. He first came across the word in fifth grade, when the class read _The Diary of Anne Frank._ The Frank family had used it as a cough suppressant. When he looked it up on the Internet, he learned that it was an opioid. So it should also alleviate pain.

He’s been slammed into cement blocks. Lifted to dizzying heights and dropped hundreds of feet to the ground. Buried under piles of rubble. Hit head on by a bullet train. Had the arteries in his arm slashed.

He’s been through the ringer a time or two. Being held down and forcibly known in the biblical sense wouldn’t rank quite as high for others as it does for Peter. It does rank, and it rankles. Because, in contrast to his confrontations with Vulture early in his tenure as Spider-Man, Beck’s attacks are **personal.**

 _ **Beck.**_ Peter wants to spit at the very thought of the name. There’s no way he will ever refer to him as Quentin again. It is far too informal, too familiar. In a way, Beck knows Peter better than anyone. In others, he doesn’t know him at all. 

Poor little Peter Parker. Still a teenager, just a baby, really. Gullible and naive, malleable. Teachable. Expendable.

Peter is overcome with sudden anger. He balls his hand into a fist and smashes the mirror. “Ow, damn it!” He blows on his bleeding fist, as if that will help. He glances at his cut knuckles, the tiny shards of glass embedded in them.

He’ll need stitches, at some point. For now, he runs hot water and rubbing alcohol over his hand, immediately identifiable by the conspicuous 70% isopropyl label.** He pours a small stream of alcohol over a pair of tweezers, and painstakingly removes the small shards of glass from his knuckles. 

He grits his teeth at the tiny pinpricks of pain. Having neither the time nor the chemicals needed to concoct web fluid, Peter pours a small amount of alcohol over his knuckles and wraps his hand with a gauze bandage. He breaks open the box of codeine and takes a tablet out of the blister pack. He chews it and swallows it dry without any water. 

The aches in his hand and throughout his body in general keep Peter grounded as he ransacks the chest of drawers. He picks up socks, briefs and boxers randomly and throws them around the room. He takes the kinky sex costumes and tears them to shreds. He yanks the drawers out of the chest and slams them against the wall.

Brimming with destructive energy, he takes a drawer and smashes it into the TV. The screen cracks. He hits it again with more force, and it crashes to the ground with a satisfying thud. 

He tosses the drawer at the wall and dents it. He turns his attention to the bed, rips the sheets and pillows off, and kicks a hole in the headboard with his bare foot.

When he has reduced virtually everything in the room to rubble, he remembers the basin set in the bathroom. It’s there, sitting on the back of the toilet tank like usual. Peter picks the basin up by its handle. 

He turns it in his hands and studies the blue floral pattern. As it catches the light, he notices for the first time that there are silver letters engraved on the base. _Inge Tveit Rinehart, 15. Oktober 1935._ That’s right, this doesn’t just belong to Beck. It belongs to his _Mormor._

Peter closes his eyes. He curls his fingers tight around the pitcher’s handle, and bows his head with a whimper of despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * CAUTION!  
> ** As far as I know, the first aid antiseptic isopropyl rubbing alcohol is not readily available for purchase in Norway. I have included it because it is a very common antiseptic where I live which can be found in basically any store.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	20. Helvegen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter finds someone to confide in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Alt veit eg, Odin  
> Kvar du auge løynde.
> 
> I know it all, Odin  
> Where you hid your eye."
> 
> -Wardruna

Peter exits the chapel-house the same way he entered: through the front door.

It is nearly evening, and Beck still has not returned. After waiting for several hours, working himself into a frenzy in the anticipation of confronting him, Peter has begun to doubt he’ll come back anytime soon. He won’t, at least not while Peter is there, if he knows what’s good for him.

Given the conman’s extensive list of transgressions, Peter has trouble believing that Beck has even a vague concept of what “good” is. He claims to be Catholic, and has at least paid lip service to the Church as an institution. If only in that sense, he is among good company. His actions, particularly in the last 18 hours, should be grounds for excommunication at least, if not prosecution.

For that to happen, Peter will have to file charges against him. Should he approach someone in one of the shops for help? As ‘Ludwig Rinehart,’ Beck is a respected citizen, well-known and well thought of by the general populace. While he, ‘Ben Reilly,’ is a foreigner, and no one of consequence. Beck has not only the support of the town, but the money and resources to hire a very powerful attorney.

Peter can’t decide if he wants to laugh or cry. He does both, his hands shoved in the pockets of the dark blue UC Riverside hoodie he took from Beck’s chest of drawers. Or, more precisely, that he found strewn among a mountain of other apparel after he destroyed the drawers. In his hoodie, sweatpants and bedroom shoes, Peter knows he must look like an addict or a vagrant.

As he aimlessly wanders the streets, he keeps his head down, buried in the hood, the drawstring pulled tight. Two well-meaning women - they look like a mother and her teen daughter - stop him in the street. They mutter incomprehensibly to each other, their tones worried. When Peter smiles and shrugs his shoulders, the older woman holds out a blue 200 kroner bill.

Peter takes the proffered note and looks at the illustration. It’s a cod fish, its vacant, slack expression a near perfect reflection of Peter’s. The teen chatters enthusiastically, eager to practice her English. “You can buy a mobile phone, _ja,_ ” she says brightly. “There is a gas station nearby.”

She's right; there is a Shell station a short distance from the Hotel Wessel, perhaps the length of a football field. Peter nods and politely mumbles “ _Takk,_ ” the extent of his Norwegian. When he turns the corner onto Toklebakken, he can see the comforting familiar yellow seashell logo encased in red.

When he pushes the door open, the cashier greets him with a smile and a nod. “ _Hallo, hvordan har du det_?” Peter returns the girl’s smile. “Hi, I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t speak Norwegian. Do you speak English?” He affects a British accent. Specifically, he imitates the intonation and speech patterns of the accent of one of his favorite actors, Finn Cole from Peaky Blinders.

“Yes, of course. How may I help you, sir?” The little white name tag on her chest reveals that her name is BRITTA. She is very chipper and bright, about 16, and looks like a stereotypical Nordic girl, with platinum blonde hair and ice blue eyes. Peter swiftly senses a thickening in his boxers, and hopes Britta can’t tell. If she does, she fails to acknowledge it, but simply smiles and looks at him expectantly.

Peter has almost forgotten, so she rephrases her question. “What can I do to assist you, sir?”

“Oh, um, right. I was wondering if you have any mobile phones?” He takes care to stress the second syllable in the word. It wouldn’t do to blow his cover. Britta buys it, or at least pretends to. 

“Oh _ja,_ we have several models. Do you prefer one of the smartphones, or a flip phone?” Peter grins and unfolds the crumpled banknote in his hand. “I’ll take whatever I can get with this.”

“One moment, please. I have just the one.” She walks over to a small display case and picks up a Tracfone box. “This one is Alcatel, very good for a basic phone. Texting may be cumbersome, because you have to send messages letter by letter. I use one myself, so maybe I am a bit biased.”

“That’ll be fine, thanks.” Peter hastily gives Britta his money. She packs the box in a bag and gives him his change, four small coins. The 5 kroner coin has a small hole in the center. Peter thinks he might get a little silver chain for it to wear around his neck and keep it as a souvenir.

He decides to give the remaining 30 kroner - about $3.50 - to the Kirkenes Church. In spite of his overall harrowing experience, the kindness of the woman and her daughter have reinvigorated his dwindling faith in humanity. Without his costume or web shooters, without the renown or power that comes with being Spider-Man, plebeian Peter Parker wants to pay it forward.

He reaches the church within a few minutes. It is Thursday, so there is no service in progress. The door is unlocked, though, the sanctuary open for prayer or private meditation. Peter makes the sign of the cross at the door and tentatively enters the narthex. He has made up his mind to donate the coins, but at the sight of the crucifix on the wall he feels a sudden, crashing wave of fear.

The things he and Beck have done together are mortal sins. Any respectable priest on Earth anywhere in the multiverse would decry them as acts against nature. For Peter to submit sexually to a man, to have so easily discarded the doctrines of the Church. He wants to make Confession and receive absolution, even if to a Lutheran pastor, but he is terrified of what they will think of him.

Peter slips into the back pew and kneels on the cap rail. He again makes the sign of the cross, closes his eyes and bows his head. 

“Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of Heaven and the pains of Hell, but most of all because they have offended Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of my love...Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.”

“Hm, is that so?”

“W-wha…?” The word dies in Peter’s throat. He feels a hand clap him on the back, and hears the pew creak as his companion sits down. He opens his eyes slowly, not wanting to rush or come across as irreverent. He sits down beside the man, and slowly turns his head towards him.

The stranger is an elderly man, perhaps in his late 70’s, with wispy white hair and one glacial blue eye. His right eye is covered with a patch. He wears cordovan shoes and the long black cassock typical for priests, but he also wears a black, cocked felt hat. When Peter tries to think of where he’s seen it's like, all that comes to mind is the one worn by Gandalf the Grey in _The Lord of the Rings_.

“H-hello, Father,” he stutters. He doesn’t know what else to say, so he sits dumbly and tries not to stare. If Aunt May were here, she would probably smack the side of his head for gaping. They only go to church services a few times a year, but she holds the clergy in high respect. They may not be God’s mouthpieces on Earth, as Peter believed as a child, but they are his ambassadors to the secular world, and caretakers of his flock.

The priest smiles benevolently and rests a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Hello, my child.” He sits with Peter and says no more. The silence that stretches between them is amiable. Peter has lost track of time when he finally speaks.

“I’ve done something terrible,” he blurts. He looks around the sanctuary with a distraught expression, as if just realizing where he is. “I - I wish to make Confession, Father. Will you hear it?”

“I will.” The priest links an arm through Peter’s elbow. “Please proceed at any time, child.”

“But…” Peter’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Don’t we need to go to a confessional? Don’t Lutherans have a formulated ritual for the Confession and Absolution?”

The priest chuckles and shakes his head. “I am no Lutheran, son. I harbor no ill will toward _den norske kirke,_ but neither do I condone or adhere to her dogma. She is, however, a lot more forgiving and - dare I say, full of grace - than her Catholic predecessor.”

Peter’s face feels hot at the direction the conversation has taken. If this man is not a priest, then why is he wearing clerical garb? What kind of surreal shit has he walked into now? The stranger feels Peter begin to fidget, and pats his hand to reassure him. “I am neither Protestant nor Catholic, but I am here to do God’s work.”

Peter sighs and bows his head. It’s a vague explanation, for sure, but for the sake of expediency, it will have to do. “Forgive me,” the man says abruptly. “I have not asked your name.”

“It’s Ben; Ben Reilly.” Peter shakes the man’s extended hand. “What should I call you, Father?”

“It suits me if you want to call me ‘Father.’ Let’s just keep that between ourselves, shall we? My son would be displeased if he should ever hear of it.”

“Oh, you have a son?” It’s not so extraordinary. If anything, it reinforces the old man’s assertion that he is not a priest, and certainly not Catholic.  
The old man smiles gently and gets a misty, faraway look in his eye. 

“Yes, I have three children, two sons and one daughter. Well, I _had_ three children. My daughter - my firstborn - has passed away. She was very angry with me, for a long time, and we never quite reconciled. My youngest son is also deceased, and I was fortunate enough to make peace with him. I am on civil terms with my oldest son, but he is always working, so I rarely see him. ”

The old man sniffs and wipes his eye with his cassock sleeve. He turns to the side so that he is facing Peter, who mirrors his action. “I will listen to whatever you have to say, Ben,” he says encouragingly. “Take all the time you need, son.”

“Well, you see, Father…” Over the course of the next several minutes, Peter tells the old man everything that has happened in the last month, glossing over the part about going into hiding. The man’s face remains neutral, until Peter describes what he went through the previous night. He uses the word **“rape”** for the first time, and subsequently falls apart.

As he starts to cry and shudder, the old man unexpectedly takes a hold of Peter’s head and firmly presses their foreheads together.

“I am so sorry you had to go through that, son. I am sorry you are going through it now.” 

He backs away to look Peter in the eye. His expression has turned to stone, his eye seeming to crackle with electricity. “If there is anything I can do to help, I will. Just say the word.”

Peter takes the old man’s hand and squeezes it appreciatively. “Thank you for listening, Father. You have already helped me more than you know.” 

The old man releases Peter’s hand and taps his cheek.

“I am happy to hear that. I know that it is difficult to remember when you are in the midst of great suffering, but keep in mind that it is always darkest just before the day dawns. And I promise you, Peter, a new day is dawning.”

The old man then vanishes in the twinkling of an eye.


	21. Look On Down From The Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter calls for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Everybody seems so far away from me  
> Everybody just wants to be free...  
> I can't be the same thing to you now  
> I'm just gone, just gone."
> 
> -Mazzy Star

Will Bredeik wakes to the loud, insistent shrill of an incoming call. He groans and mumbles half-hearted complaints as he reluctantly hauls himself up from bed.

The phone rings six more times as he slowly saunters across the room. It’s a hideous, old-fashioned contraption, a rotary dial device mounted on the wall of his dormitory. Even its design, the bright red, white and blue paint of the Union Jack, annoys him.

He lifts the phone handle from its cradle and clears his throat. _“God morgen, dette er Vilhjalmur.”_ He waits a beat for the caller to respond, but all he can hear from the other end is frantic, discordant rasping. He takes a deep breath and tries again. _“Hallo, dette er Vilhjalmur Bredeik. Hvem snakker jeg med?”_

“W-Will, is that you?” The caller’s voice is halting and lethargic. Will audibly gasps and immediately the caller has his full attention. “Yes, Ben, it’s me. How are you? How did you get my number?”

“I - I c-called the school’s main office. They said the summer session was over, but they gave me the contact number to reach you. I hope that’s OK…”

“Of course it’s OK,” he says. “But are _you_?” Will makes an effort to keep his tone light and airy. The only reason the office ever shares his contact information with anyone is in the event of an emergency.

“I’m not doing so good, Will.” ‘Ben’ sniffles and chokes back a sob. Will’s knuckles whiten as his hold tightens on the phone. “What’s wrong, Ben? What's happened?”

“I c - I can’t tell you over the phone. There...there might be someone listening.”

“I can assure you that’s impossible. This is an encrypted line.” He rubs his forehead with his free hand, pressing so hard he gives himself a headache.

From ‘Ben’s’ fatalistic sigh, Will knows he doesn’t believe him. He can hear a wild, whooshing sound, as if 'Ben' is standing beside a waterfall or within a strong gust of wind.

“Ben, where are you? You don’t have to tell me everything on the phone, but you do have to tell me where you are. At least tell me whether or not you’re safe .” A terrible thought occurs to Will, and he clenches his jaw. He takes a few deep, even breaths.

“Ben, if someone is there with you, tell me what you ate for breakfast.”

“I had a slice of rye bread with jam and butter, and a little wedge of brown cheese.” Will inhales so sharply through his nose that he snorts. “Alright Ben, I need you to listen to me very carefully. If ‘Ludwig Rinehart’ is there with you, cough twice.”

He does, and clears his throat. “Ha, sorry Will. I must be catching a cold or something. You know, it is about 25° cooler here than in my hometown.” Will’s heart thuds in his chest. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before continuing.

“Ben, I’m sorry for this next part. I must warn you, it is going to be both painful, and overwhelming. It is imperative that you remain calm, no matter what.” He pauses to give him time to absorb his words. Will takes one more deep breath to calm his own nerves, and takes the plunge.

“I have reason to believe that your name is not Ben Reilly. Your name - your real name - is Peter Benjamin Parker. If that is correct, say ‘OK.’”

“OK.” Will bites his tongue to stop himself from yelping in triumph. “Peter, I know this is a lot to take in, but I need you to hold yourself together. _I know who you are._ No matter what happens, try to stay on the line with me!”

Peter belches and chuckles hysterically. “It’s so good to hear your voice, Will. Our first meeting was so short, but I sensed even then that we were kindred spirits, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, Peter, we are. More than you know.” Will scrambles around the flat. He quickly puts on his uniform and fumbles with a small square device that looks like an iPod nano.

When he is finally able to trace the call, he taps the coordinates 69°40′53″N 30°6′36″E onto the keypad. They are the coordinates for Bøkfjordbrua, the recently constructed bridge that connects the fjord with the town of Zapolyarny, Russia.

Soon after he visualizes the bridge in his mind, Will pushes a button on the device. He is immediately teleported over 1,400 miles. He holds his head in his hands and waits for the nausea to pass. He has done this at least a dozen times, but wonders when he can expect to teleport without the lovely side effects.

He blinks as his eyes adjust. Several yards away, Peter is sitting on top of the bridge railing. His eyes closed, he is clutching the railing with one hand, holding his mobile phone to his ear with the other. ‘Rinehart’ is nowhere to be found. Will’s heart sinks at Peter’s defeated, distraught frown.

“Peter,” he says cautiously. “Peter, it’s me. It’s Will.” When he opens them, Peter’s eyes remind Will of an abused puppy’s. Sad, brown, and soulful. They are seared into Will’s mind, a haunting reflection of his own.

He doesn’t respond, but stares at the air over Will’s shoulder. When he finally does speak, Peter’s words slur. “H-how do I know you’re really here? B-Beck says you’re just an illusion.”

Will steps forward, holding his arms up, his palms turned toward the sky. “I promise it’s me, Peter. Come on, Peter, please, eyes front. Tell me about your childhood.”

“I...was born in New York City. My parents d-died when I was four. My Uncle Ben and Aunt May raised me. I grew up in a seventh floor walkup apartment in Queens.” He seems to relax as he talks. 

“My Uncle Ben was killed in a carjacking when I was eight. After that, Aunt May did the best she could to raise me as a single parent. She worked all the time to keep the rent paid. No matter how busy she was, though, she always made time for me. And then there was…”

Peter pauses and cocks his head. “Then there was T-Tony. He helped me cope with my abilities, you know. Helped me learn how to lead a double life. He enlisted me as an Avenger. He...he _loved_ me. _Unconditionally,_ or so I thought. He tried to warn me about Beck. My God, after the hell he put me through, why did I still give him the benefit of the doubt? Why did Tony let him take me? Why did I stay with him, and why...oh my God, Will, I let him **fuck** me! And Tony left for good after that!”

“Whoa. Hang on, Peter. That is not on you, do you understand me? You’re only 16 years old. You are a **child;** Quentin Beck is a 32-year-old man. He took advantage of you, saw that you had a void in your life and wormed his way in. _You know this,_ Peter. You’ve seen what he can do, the mind tricks he plays on people. Tony loved you unconditionally. He died so that you could live, Peter. Do you really think he would abandon you, and allow you to be abused this way?" 

The more Will speaks, the more vehement he becomes, and the more his accent slips. Gradually the melodic vowels and tempo of his Norwegian accent give way to the clipped, staccato vowels and measured rhythm of Received Pronunciation. Peter wobbles on the railing and drops his mobile phone into the river below. He clings to the rail with both hands.

His grip slips, and for one heartstopping moment, he is held in place only by his bare feet sticking to the bridge, the bedroom slippers long since lost. Predictably, maddeningly, Peter’s legs slip, too.

In a flash, Will runs toward him. He brings his hand forward, his thumb, index and pointer fingers pointed in a form of the rock symbol, his middle and ring fingers pointed down toward the base of his wrist. A thin, threadlike substance resembling silly string spurts from his wrist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? This is another of those chapters that I'm not really sure about. It's relatively short, compared to the others, and the action and pacing are so rapid they give the author - and likely the readers - whiplash.
> 
> Since I've let the cat out of the bag here, it's high time I explain who 'Will' is. In the film _Far From Home,_ Quentin Beck says he is from Earth-833, which is the home world of William "Billy" Braddock, who is that world's Spider-Man (Spider-UK). I wasn't sure about including him in this fic, but my mind latched on to that 45 second clip in the film and wouldn't let go.
> 
> From this chapter, things are going to get a little bit more mystical. Rest assured, I have a solid conclusion in mind, at this moment I just don't know how many chapters there will be. I plan to continue this particular fic for the duration of the summer, at least. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	22. Who Is He (And What Is He To You?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Will make assumptions.

Every time Peter thinks he’s seen it all, something shocking comes along and causes him to recalibrate his expectations. Five weeks to the day since his abduction, he is flying first-class on a red eye flight from Kirkenes to London, England, the last place on Earth he wants to go.

His initial enthusiasm when Beck told him of the reality of the multiverse has waned.

There are so many questions Peter wants to ask, so many seeming paradoxes, that he thinks he is losing his mind. According to Will, the resident Spider-Man figure - called “Spider-UK” - of Earth-833, Beck has been pumping his mind full of stimulants and narcotics since they first met.

“From the moment you shook his hand, Peter, he’s had his claws in you. Beck is not only a master illusionist, he is also a chemist of sorts. He concocts his own vile toxins and uses them to slowly drive people mad.

In my world, he thought he had defeated me, so he came here to wreak havoc on your world and try to eliminate you. From the casualties and the damage he’s caused so far, I’d say he’s come pretty damn close.”

Will scowls and yanks a handful of his hair in frustration. “At least I got to you before you fell in the river! Who knows what kind of hideous things he’s been whispering in your ear all this time!”

Peter swats Will’s hand. His otherworldly counterpart’s jaw drops in surprise. “Y-you sh-shouldn't, Will. You’ll h-hurt yourself.”

Will scoffs and rolls his eyes. Peter wouldn’t be discomfited if he stuck out his tongue. Such brash, childish behavior would have been unimaginable to ascribe to Vilhjalmur Bredeik, the young nephew of Bjorn Bredeik, the Norwegian ambassador to the United Kingdom.

According to his brief student profile on the British International School of Stavanger’s website, Vilhjalmur had been orphaned at age 7, when his parents died in a plane crash. He was then taken in by his Uncle Bjorn and Aunt Marta, who tragically died in a car accident when he was 11.

The parallels to Peter’s own life are eerie, if they are indeed true.

This Will Braddock is quite the opposite of the privileged, polite scion of a political family. Peter’s first impressions are that Will is somewhat pompous, and very cynical - bitterly so. Peter guesses he must be about 18 years old.

For all of his apparent faults, Peter keeps in mind that Will has saved his life. He knows he should be grateful, but the rational part of his brain can’t seem to override the insidiously powerful desire to die.

He doesn’t even want to die, strictly speaking. He just doesn’t want to be here anymore. He doesn’t want to have to do this anymore.

With MJ, Ned, Aunt May, and Happy out of his life, and with the knowledge that Tony Stark is truly, incontrovertibly dead, Peter essentially has no one.

The knowledge that Beck used his love for Tony to gaslight and manipulate him makes him want to fashion a lasso out of web fluid and hang Beck from the highest beam of the bridge he tried to coax Peter to jump off of.

The intensity of his feelings scares Peter a little bit. He has always been even tempered, never one to assume an extreme stance on any issue, despite what Beck said about his ‘black and white’ worldview.

The crazed criminal had aspirations of making Peter neutral, of skewing the teen’s outlook on life to make him an amoral nihilist. What he has done is the very opposite. Peter now clearly divides the world into ‘good’ and evil,’ and there is no middle ground.

Maybe that’s why he has reacted so strongly to Will pulling his own hair. Because, as brash and aloof as he is, William Braddock is ‘a good man.’ Peter feels this so strongly and resolutely it should scare him.

It would scare Will, or at the very least unnerve him, and Peter is desperate not to alienate him. He tries his best not to let it show, but the adrenaline coursing through his bloodstream, on top of the bevy of other drugs that are still in his system, make it difficult to hide his fixation.

Will doesn’t respond to Peter’s overreaction right away. He turns his attention to the view out the window. He can see the vast, endless expanse of night sky. The stars and clouds mingle in a glorious display.

When he looks down, he can see the North Sea, an endless sheet of smooth glass that steadily becomes darker the closer they get to the United Kingdom.

Will takes an exaggerated breath and turns his attention back to Peter. The boy’s pitiful, wide-eyed innocent stare breaks Will’s heart.

“It’s alright,” he says softly, to soothe himself as well as Peter. “I’ll be fine, Peter. I’ve dealt with far worse.” He says the last words almost spitefully. In their respective parallel universes, Will and Peter have both been fighting against nefarious forces for around two years.

Will knows the basics of Peter’s background from an extensive briefing before being sent on his mission. From what little information he has gleaned, his assessment of Peter Parker is that he is pampered and soft, regardless of the tragic circumstances of his childhood.

He has had the same childhood as Will, more or less. All Will can guess is that Peter is more spoiled and sensitive because it was his uncle who died, while he lost his aunt.

He has not yet met May Parker, but from the way Director Fury describes her, and the measures she has taken to find him, it is obvious how much she loves him.

Meanwhile, Will’s uncle Brian - the commander of Earth-833’s British variant of S.H.I.E.L.D. and masked super-powered hero known as Captain Britain - raised him to be unsentimental and self-sufficient. At 13, Will was sent away to boarding school. He can count on one hand the number of times he has seen his uncle since.

He has zoned out. He doesn’t realize Peter has asked him a question until he gently shakes his shoulder. “I’m sorry Peter, my attention drifted. What were you saying?”

Peter frowns and chews his thumbnail absently. He is offended by Will’s lapse in attention, and is taking it personally. Never mind that Will is exhausted. “I asked you how exactly you know Beck.”

“He, um, snapped my neck.” Will’s face pales and his eyes take on a glassy sheen. He says the words lightly and matter-of-factly, as if he is commenting on the weather.

“Yikes! I’m sorry.” Peter’s eyes darken. From the look on his face it is evident that he is close to tears. Will hardens his heart and preempts further questions by summarizing for Peter the events of that fateful day nearly a year ago.

“As I’m sure you’ve figured out, having multiple universes entails having multiple Spider-Kin. In the multiverse, there is a dangerous organization who get their sick kicks from hunting down and killing every super-powered Spider-Being they can. After being fired from Stark Industries in this dimension, Beck traveled to mine and offered his services to said organization for a pretty penny. Enough pennies, in fact, to fund his research and enable him to cook up the whole elaborate scheme with the Elementals in the first place. So you see, in a way my alleged death was the cause for your current troubles. For that, I am sorry, though there was aught I could do about it.”

He inhales deeply, like he’s taking a drag off a cigarette. “Someday I’ll tell you how I survived, but that’s quite enough information for one day. Besides, we’re about to make our landing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and speaking of making assumptions, in light of a scant amount of backstory and biographical information regarding William "Billy" Braddock/Spider-UK, the author has taken the liberty of fleshing out one similar to Peter's that may or may not turn out to be factual. (How's that for a run-on sentence?)


	23. Both Eyes Open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin ruminates.

It is morning, Quentin thinks. It is dark, but it must be early morning. So early that the sun has not yet risen. On the Kola Peninsula - this cold and windswept shithole he currently finds himself in - the sun rises around 3:00 AM and stays in the sky for around 20 hours. 

Quentin sits up and stretches, leaning his head back and spreading his arms with a moan.

When one has grown accustomed to sleeping on silk, it is hard to adjust to sleeping on the ground for even one night.

His muscles clench and cramp, the ache so strong he feels tears gather in his eyes. It has been nearly 24 hours since Peter left. 

Quentin’s instincts are to lie low, to process the unforeseen avalanche of grief and anger that accompany their parting. 

But Quentin Beck has never been one to sit still and wallow in the mire for long. He just feels that he should be doing _something_.

He stands up and zips closed the olive drab sleeping bag he nicked from an unsuspecting Russian soldier - along with his tent, uniform, and rations. Since fleeing Norway, he has had nothing to wear but the terrycloth robe and sheepskin bedroom shoes he hastily put on before leaving the stave chapel.

It must have been quite a sight, the honorable Dr. Ludwig Rinehart slipping out the back door of his own house. The good people of Kirkenes know well enough to mind their own business, particularly where he is concerned. 

As one of the most prominent psychologists in the region, he is privy to secrets that most would prefer to stay hidden.

Quentin thought his heart would stop beating when he watched Peter lean back off of the bridge. Kneeling behind a boulder on the Russian side, he wanted to scream, and was about to leap into the water after him - until he was no longer falling. 

Quentin could not believe his eyes when he saw Spider-UK step into his line of sight. He pressed the trigger on his web shooter, and the web caught Peter by the foot mid flight.

Spider-UK - whose neck Quentin had violently twisted, so much so that he nearly decapitated him - then removed his mask to reveal Vilhjalmur Bredeik, the boy’s habitual carefree, cheerful grin replaced by a somber, sullen frown. 

How is Braddock still alive? Quentin’s not sure which is more alarming, the fact that he is alive, or that he somehow failed to notice he has been counseling his enemy for almost a year. Vilhjalmur Bredeik? The boy certainly didn’t put too much thought into his alias.

Quentin feels a grudging respect for Braddock’s successful ruse. He wonders how exactly he managed to conceal his face, or alter its features to the point that he was unrecognizable. Perhaps Braddock uses similar technology to his own to obscure his face.

Quentin frowns as he studies his own face in the murky reflection of a spoon. The soldier’s rations are meager, but that is fine since Quentin has lost his appetite. He tries to eat a small bowl of pea soup, heated up over a small battery operated hot plate. The food is so salty he can eat only a few spoonfuls.

With his beard, one black eye, and his face covered in bruises of varying shades of black, blue and purple, Quentin looks the part of a soldier.

That, or at least someone who’s been in a bar fight or two. He can’t decipher the Cyrillic letters of the soldier’s name patch. 

He can neither read nor speak Russian, and desperately hopes that he will not be seen or stopped by anyone on the road.

If need be, Quentin is fully capable of defending himself. He can employ some mind trick to make someone forget they’ve seen him, or he can wipe the encounter from their memory. As a last resort, he can bash someone in the back of the head and knock them out. Either way, he has to move on soon. 

By now, Braddock will have revealed ‘Dr. Ludwig Rinehart’ as a charlatan, exposed him as the dangerous criminal Mysterio/Quentin Beck. By now, the Norwegian government will have seized all of his assets, including the stave chapel. By now, Braddock has surely spirited Peter away, and has begun to fill his mind with propaganda to poison Peter against him.

Damn. All of Quentin’s work, years of ensconcing himself in society, of bettering his skills and trying to climb to “the top” of the heap, is now meaningless. All of his successes, his renown and influence, has turned to dust and blown away. 

Absurdly, the pain of losing his prestige and standing in the world is not nearly as painful as losing Peter.

Not even by a fraction. Quentin rues the methods he’s used, but he could never stop himself. Filled with total rage at being belittled and terminated by Tony Stark, he has only done what he thought he had to in order to someday get back at him. 

Dispatching Braddock wasn’t easy, but Quentin hardened his heart to the teen’s screams and pleas for mercy, thinking of the $1,000,000 promised for each successful assassination of a Spider-Being by the sketchy poacher clan from Earth-001.

Cash in hand, he returned to his Earth, hellbent on destroying Stark once and for all. The prick’s untimely death took the wind out of Quentin’s sails, until he remembered Stark’s little sidekick.

His months of obsessive research into Spider-Man proved fruitless. And then, Quentin came up with the bright idea to approach Fury. From there, it was only a matter of days until he met Spider-Man face-to-face, unmasked. Sweet, guileless Peter Parker.

Quentin’s infatuation with Peter began innocently enough. As innocent as such an infatuation can be between two super-powered geniuses. His intellect was impressive, his knowledge of physics, chemistry, and the world in general. 

The thin line between hopeless, unrequited crush into all-consuming lustful obsession was crossed when Peter found the projector in Prague.

Finding the projector would have been bad enough on its own. Finding the projector with that disrespectful little groupie girl sent Quentin over the edge. He supposes in hindsight that deliberately targeting Peter’s girlfriend and best friend for termination was a bit excessive. 

Michelle Jones is pretty enough, and can be winsome when she wants to be. But Peter Parker is **his** , like it or not.

Oh, how he wishes Peter did like it. He seemed to, he certainly liked certain aspects of it. But overall it was too much. He shouldn’t have used so much deception with him, should have just tried to be himself and Peter would probably have liked him fine. Just not fine enough to want to be with him. 

Quentin knows he’s overdone it, regrets the crippling depression and paranoia that come part and parcel as side effects of his particular blend of psychedelic compounds. He’s tried to help Peter through it, let him routinely punch and beat the ever-living crap out of him. 

Ever since arriving in Kirkenes, Quentin has walked around with perpetual bruises, black eyes, and the occasional sprained wrist. It is only fair, he reminds himself every time he has to pop a Percocet for the pain. His wounds are a canvas, an external depiction of Peter’s internal suffering. Just desserts from the lover who does not love him.

Quentin bends the spoon and drops it to the ground. He’s spent too much time here already. The sun will rise in a matter of minutes, and he has to cover as much ground as he can. He doesn’t know where Braddock has taken Peter exactly, but he has a good idea where to start.

Quentin leaves everything in the tent the way he found it, with the exception of the uniform. As soon as he reaches Murmansk, he will ditch the uniform and procure more appropriate civilian clothing. From there, he will use the last of his savings to pay for a flight to London.

Quentin stops briefly by the shallow grave he has dug for the young soldier. He makes the sign of the cross and slightly bows in a gesture of respect. 

Thank you, and rest in peace, Иван Смирнов.

As he walks away from the campsite, Quentin's hitherto swollen eye begins to open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little note about this 'sketchy poacher clan from Earth-001': Formerly characterized as an organization in the previous chapter, the Inheritors are best described as super rich, insane poachers.
> 
> They are similar to the Kravinoff family, i.e. Kraven the Hunter. The Inheritors like to hunt down and kill all kinds of different super-powered beings across the multiverse, and mount their severed heads on their wall, believe it or not. They feature as the central villains of the comic book storyline "Spiderverse."
> 
> Иван Смирнов, the young Russian soldier Beck ended up killing so he could nab his stuff, translates to English as "Ivan Smirnov."
> 
> The author would also like to reiterate that her conception of Will Braddock/Spider-UK is modeled on Thomas Brodie-Sangster.


	24. England

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter tries to decompress.

As anticipated, Peter and Will land in London at Heathrow Airport. Peter is rushed through the terminal so quickly he gets a headache. On the taxi ride to the Queens Park Hotel in Paddington, Peter commits to memory the buildings and scenery. 

He has no way of knowing for sure what’s in store for him, but he suspects it will involve a high level of secrecy. Likely, there is another safehouse in his near future. Hopefully one with a little bit more space, running water, and wifi already installed, so he won’t have to get inventive.

He lets Will do all the talking as they check in at the front desk. They book a standard double room under the names “Billy Braddock” and “Ben Reilly.” The smiling clerk hands Will a key card and bids them both to _“Have a good night, lads!”_ She winks at Peter and waggles her eyebrows up and down.

“They keep getting more and more unprofessional, I swear.” Will sneers and rolls his eyes until they’re nearly sucked to the back of his skull. “The hotel staff of the London in my dimension are all well-bred, polite, educated girls. Here they’ll hire any old ninny or Essex girl with only GCSEs.” Peter nods and smiles politely when Will stops in the corridor to look back at him. He has no idea what he’s talking about, but he goes with it.

“You have no clue what I’m talking about.” He says it bluntly, but without a hint of condescension. “If you care to learn, I’ll fill you in on the glorious minutiae of British culture - at a later date. For now, you’d better get some sleep. We have an early flight to catch.”

Will turns away and misses Peter’s baffled expression. Of course they have an early flight to catch. Peter is amazed that he still even has the capacity to wonder. London is as large as New York City, if not larger. The city proper has a population of around 8,000,000 inhabitants, comparable to NYC. Peter has read that the total metropolitan population is circa 14,000,000.

It is all but impossible to try to hide here. Especially when his face and name are so well known, in the very place where he allegedly committed acts of murder and mayhem. Peter thinks it is unconscionably reckless to even pass through London, much less stay the night.

The miniature hologram installed on a microchip tucked just inside his inner ear casts a pall over his face, so that no one can make out his features. Will has assured him of this. Normally Peter would ask how the tech works, but his curiosity has diminished.

Will stops outside a room and slips the key card in. When he pushes the door open and flips the light on, Peter audibly whimpers. The room is small, about as big as the top floor of Beck’s chapel house. There is a small dresser with three drawers, a small TV built in.

There is a small bedside table with a telephone. There is a small kitchenette, a small bathroom with a sink, shower, and toilet. What upsets Peter is the presence of the single twin bed. It is rather small, just large enough to accommodate Peter and Will.

After sharing a bed for weeks with Beck, Peter doubts he’ll be able to restfully sleep. Detecting Peter’s discomfort, Will picks up the phone and calls the front desk. “Hello, this is Will Braddock in Room 302. I’d like an extra set of sheets sent up, please. Yes, thank you.”

Peter smiles timidly and sits on the edge of the bed. “Th-thank you, Will.” Will shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively. “Think nothing of it, Parker. I’d have to be a real bastard to distress you in any way, after what you’ve endured.” He doesn’t offer an elaboration, nor does Peter ask for one.

The nature of Peter’s relationship with Beck is complicated, and then some. What he told Will on Bøkfjordbrua is true - to a degree. Yes, Beck has kidnapped him. Yes, he has used narcotics and hallucinations to keep Peter in his thrall. Yes, he has taken advantage of him, violated him, in every possible way.

Yet, Peter misses him. He yearns for the feel of Beck’s touch, the soft wetness of his kisses. He pines for the pleasure and pain Beck gave him, and that he gave back in turn. The memory of Beck’s blue eyes, wide and panicked like a child’s, as he balanced on the cusp of orgasm. The acrid, earthy flavor of Beck’s seed as he came in Peter’s mouth. The sweet, stabbing ache in his rear.

Peter’s reverie is broken when Will snaps his fingers inches from his face. “I’m ordering room service. What would you like?” He starts to list every available item on the menu. 

Peter wants to deny that he’s hungry, but the intermittent rumbling of his stomach betrays him. He can’t remember the last time he’s eaten and managed to keep the food down.

“Fish and chips,” he says, interrupting Will’s recitation. “Actually, hold the fish. Just some chips, but tell them to go easy on the ketchup.” 

“Righto.” Will repeats Peter’s instructions, and hangs up. He looks at Peter until the younger teen’s face flushes pink and he begins to fidget, tapping his fingers pointedly on his kneecap. “What is it?”

Will harrumphs. He modifies his typically sharp tone in consideration of Peter’s feelings. “You might want to start eating a more varied diet, mate. Something with protein, like meat or beans. No offense, but unless I had seen your passport myself, I never would have believed you were 16.”

Peter huffs indignantly. “I’ll be 17 in two weeks. I can’t help it that I have a babyish face. And - no offense to you, _mate_ \- but you aren’t really one to talk.” Will’s stern facade breaks. The corners of his mouth turn up, and he flashes his ludicrously pearly white teeth. Peter idly wonders if Will has ever considered shooting commercials for toothpaste brands.

“You aren’t wrong,” he agrees. “When I tell people I’m nearly 20, they think I’m joking. Whenever I go to the pub, they always ask for my I.D.”

“You’re almost 20, really?” Peter looks Will up and down. His first thought was that he was his age. At best, Will can pass for 18. “When’s your birthday?”

“It’s the same as yours, just three years apart; 10 August, 1998. And you know what that means.” He glances at his wristwatch. He’s long since ditched the Spider-UK costume, opting for a plain white T-shirt, denim jacket, jeans and black canvas trainers. “I hope they bring the food soon. I’m starving.”

Peter rubs the back of his neck. “No, I don’t know. It’s cool we have the same birthday, but what does it mean?” Will winks. “It means we get two cakes, instead of one. But I get the bigger cake. It’s only fair, since I’m older.” His sarcasm is teasing and lighthearted. It is entirely at odds with his earlier bitter, morose behavior. “Fine with me,” Peter says. 

The rest of the day quickly passes. When the food comes, Peter and Will binge on Welsh rabbit and chips, respectively. Peter shares some of his chips with Will, who gladly eats them along with his food. Will tries to get Peter to try some of his Welsh rabbit, which he swears is only gravy and cheese sauce poured over thick toast. Alas, he can’t convince Peter that there is no actual rabbit meat in the meal.

They sip canned Coke through straws and play games with the deck of cards Will finds in the drawer. They play Old Maid and Go Fish for hours, basic, uncomplicated games to pass the time. When Will yawns and says he’s tired, Peter feels a slight pang of rejection.

He knows the feeling is irrational, and tries to quell the sudden paralyzing fear of abandonment. He barely knows Will as an individual, but knows the details of his darkest day. As Will shuffles the deck and puts the cards back in the box, Peter struggles to organize and articulate his thoughts.

Will makes up a pallet on the floor at the foot of the bed. He lies down and pulls the sheet up to his neck. 

“I know it’s a bit early, but I really am knackered. I know you are, too, but you don’t have to go to bed just because I am. Do shut the light off, but if you want to watch the telly for a while, that’s fine with me. Just keep the volume low. Good night, Peter.”


	25. Serpentine (No Place To Hyde)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beck finds Peter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I was caught up in the moment  
> You were alone and you seemed to harness the light  
> Even though I felt cold inside when you told me it would be alright  
> I had given up control and I didn't focus hard enough to see the warning signs:  
> Your heart is serpentine."
> 
> -Disturbed

Hyde Park after dark is the most beautiful place in all of London. Peter thinks so, anyway. After hours of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, he slips out of the bathroom window. Utterly exhausted, Will fails to wake up.

Peter is ambivalent as he crawls down the hotel’s edifice. It’s good that he’s managed to sneak out without alerting him, but sooner or later he’ll wake up and see that Peter’s gone.

It’s an experience he has subconsciously foisted on Will. By transferring the experience to someone else, maybe Peter can escape the terror it invokes in him. 

The park is officially closed at this hour, but Peter casually strolls onto the greenery from Bayswater Road. He has been here before, but never so late - or early, rather. He estimates it to be between 3:00 and 4:00 in the morning.

Like New York, London is a city that never sleeps. Peter walks the length of the park, his thumbs tucked in the belt loops of his jeans. He does not even own the clothes on his back, castoffs provided by the Salvation Army, according to Will. 

It will be a few hours until the sun rises and the park opens. Plenty of time, Peter hopes, to gather his thoughts.

He strolls through the Italian Gardens, bored and disinterested. The novelty has long since worn off. Here he stands, in one of the largest natural parks, in a city that is one of the world’s most popular travel destinations. Yet he feels nothing at all.

Peter walks down the river until he comes to the Serpentine Bridge. He gets on the bridge, and makes his way across toward Kensington Gardens. From there, at least, he will have a view of Kensington Palace, one of his favorite landmarks.

He stops midway across the bridge and stares down into the river. How easy it would be, he thinks, to climb up onto the railing, and just jump off. A short drop and a sudden stop. Maybe not so sudden. 

As soon as he hits the water, he will have to swim toward the bottom of the river to resist the primal urge to swim to the surface. After about a minute, he will not be able to hold his breath any longer. He will inhale water, lose consciousness, and never wake again.

Peter climbs up and sits on the railing, dangling his feet toward the water below. He clutches the rail, the adhesive pads of his fingers holding him in place when he leans forward just a little more. He is hanging in midair, his fingertips the only thing keeping him from falling into the river.

Peter is inert. He makes no effort to pull himself up, but neither does he try to let go. The old damnable cliche is right. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Here’s the way, the only way he can ever imagine successfully doing this, but where is his will? If his will isn’t strong enough, what else does he lack?

“Where’s Billy?” 

Peter is astonished at the sound of the familiar voice. His strength renewed, he pulls himself up to crouch on the railing on his hands and knees. He bites his lip until it bleeds as Mysterio appears in a whirling mist.

Peter immediately reacts, lunging toward him like a rocket. He rears his arm back to punch Mysterio’s chest, only for his fist to pass through thin air. “Come on, Beck!” Peter taunts, his tone chillingly calm. “Quit hiding behind your little parlor tricks and bullshit. Come out here and face me!”

“I said, ‘where’s Billy’?” Mysterio grabs Peter from behind, his elbows wrapping around his neck in a loose chokehold. Peter snarls and bites down on what appears to be his gauntlet, but his teeth sink into the soft flesh of his forearm. Mysterio hisses and exerts pressure on Peter’s neck.

“Let me tell you a little something about Billy Braddock. He was small, but he was a fighter. I never expected such a hassle with the British Spider Scout. He’d only had his powers for about six months, but he was tough…” 

Mysterio gasps when Peter brutally elbows him in the stomach, the bruised flesh still tender from their encounter two days earlier. Peter bites Beck’s arm until he tastes blood. He moans and leans back against the rail, letting go of Peter’s neck.

Peter stops biting him. He jabs his elbow into his stomach one final time and whirls around to face him. He bares his teeth, stained with the man's blood, looking for all the world like a rabid animal. “Ha!” Peter whoops victoriously. He spits a gob of blood and saliva into the injured criminal’s face.

The illusion of an impressively armored Mysterio fades, leaving Quentin Beck, a babbling, blathering weakling Peter can’t even recognize. He gets right up in Beck’s space, his finger stabbing Beck’s chest with every word he speaks. “I don’t have to tell you shit. I don’t know who this ‘Billy’ character is, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you where he is!”

Beck’s eyes start to droop as if he is about to pass out. Peter slaps his cheek. He grabs Beck’s shoulders and shakes him violently. “I know a Will Braddock,” he says, almost conversationally. “We have a lot of the same abilities, but he’s a lot stronger than me.”

Beck mumbles incoherently. “What’s that?” Peter turns his ear toward Beck’s lips. “What did you say?” Beck coughs and leans forward. “I said that you’re about equally matched.” 

Beck smiles wanly and touches Peter’s cheek. He allows him to. He even, inexplicably, turns and presses his lips to Beck’s wounded arm, running his tongue over the imprints of his teeth. He shakes off any feeling of residual pity. “Is that why you had me in a chokehold? Were you gonna try to break my neck, like you broke Will’s?”

Beck moans and shakes his head side to side. “I - I’d never do that to you, Peter. I won’t bother asking you to trust me. I think it’s safe to say we both know you don’t trust me now...and you never will.”

“You’re goddamn right about that.” Peter kicks Beck’s side in rage. He doesn’t smile, but feels a sadistic, sickening gladness at the sound of Beck’s ribs cracking. Maybe he should have pulled his punches...and his kicks. 

Peter senses that he is standing on the edge of some great precipice. He can only hope that he can resist the urge to jump, or that someone will be there to pull him back. His whole body quivers with anticipation, like a bowstring pulled back.

Beck regards him, blinking blearily. Peter may not trust him, but the teen himself is trustworthy. Beck’s efforts to warp his mind are not entirely effective.

As the first faint rays of sunlight appear in the sky, Peter kneels down and catches Beck’s chin. “Will told me all about your little adventure on Earth-833.” Beck’s pupils dilate as Peter speaks. 

“Yeah, your little narrative about the multiverse...imagine my surprise to find out you aren’t totally full of shit. Anyway, so Will tells me you tried to kill him, all for some prize money so you could finance some scheme to bring about Mr. Stark’s downfall. Too bad for you Mr. Stark’s dead, and Will isn’t. What’s gonna happen to you, do you think, when the goons who hired you find out that Will isn’t really dead?”

Beck whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut. Peter stands up, grabs Beck by the collar and lifts him to his feet. His action is gentle, an arduous effort to show him mercy. Peter hugs him unexpectedly, hastily patting his back.

“You better go, Beck.” He is as stunned as Beck at his abrupt 180. All that is in Peter wants to kill this man - to take his head between his hands and slam it back against the bridge until it’s as soft as a baked apple.

But he knows that would be wrong. It would be evil, and then Peter would be no better than Beck. He hears Aunt May’s voice in his mind, reciting the Golden Rule: _“Do to others whatever you would have them do to you.”_

She does not want this for him. She has raised him to be better than this.

“Get out of here, Beck,” Peter says again. He gives the man a shove that is somehow firm and gentle simultaneously. “If the police find you, they’ll arrest you, and if Will finds you...I can’t guarantee he won’t try to kill you. Please, Beck, go.”

A plume of green vapor swirls around Beck. When it dissipates, he is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line 'a short drop and a sudden stop' is a quote from Commodore Norrington of _Pirates of the Caribbean_.
> 
> The line about Peter 'standing on the edge of a great precipice' was paraphrased from a quote by Rose from _Titanic_.
> 
> A "180" is a complete reversal of one's behavior or beliefs.


	26. Versions of Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Will have a row.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "These versions of violence  
> Sometimes subtle sometimes clear  
> And the ones that go unnoticed  
> Still leave their mark once disappeared."
> 
> \- Alanis Morissette

The new safehouse is a cottage on the outskirts of the village Northmoor Green. 

More widely known as “Moorland,” the village is located in the middle of the Somerset Levels. 

The Levels are a lengthy area of wetlands stretching from the limestone hills of Mendips south of Bristol to the Blackdown Hills near the county’s border with Devon.

Peter takes this information in as he walks through the cottage. He trails his fingers over the walls as Will chatters on incessantly. 

The cottage is cozy and humid, womb-like. 

It is made of stone, a single story structure with a thatched roof that has belonged to the Braddock family since the 16th century. 

At least, the particular cottage in Earth-833 has belonged to the Braddock family since that time. In their current dimension of Earth-616, Will explains that the cottage belongs to someone else, but that he is renting it from them for the summer. 

His lease ends on the first day of Autumn. Peter counts in his head to determine that they have approximately seven weeks to figure out a game plan. 

A greater length of time than his captivity with Beck, it is more than enough time. It should be, but Peter has learned the hard way how one’s entire world can change in a matter of minutes.

He knows he is supposed to feel safe. He is supposed to be the hero, to bounce back in stride from any hardship. He isn’t even sure he’s allowed to grieve anymore. The ninth mensiversary since Tony’s death is in a few days. His 17th birthday - and Will’s 20th - will follow a week after that.

When Will suggests that Tony’s periodic appearances to him in the five weeks were nothing more than hallucinations, Peter feels relieved and bereaved at once. 

His hallucinations were a combination of acute psychosis resulting from post-traumatic stress and severe depression, and the drugs Beck pumped into his system. 

Will has told him a few of the substances Beck uses - LSD and coke being the main ones to keep Peter under his control, along with some others he doesn’t recognize, or care to learn more about. 

Pretty much everything he’s done for the past 6 weeks, in other words, he’s had no control over, no say in. Does that include all the times he beat Beck, or just the times the man put his dick in Peter’s mouth, or up his ass?

Because it is not considered an addictive drug, Peter has no way of knowing how long it will take to withdraw from the LSD. The coke withdrawal could take up to 5 weeks. 

The withdrawal itself is likely going to be as volatile as the side effects of the drugs themselves, if not more so.

Peter notices that Will is watching him out of the corner of his eye. He’s going through his wardrobe, putting together a few outfits for Peter to wear. Until Will’s Uncle Brian wires him some money, they cannot buy Peter any new clothes. 

“What d'you think of these?” Will asks, holding up a short-sleeve royal blue button up and black slacks for his inspection. Peter groans inwardly and gives the outfit a thumb’s up. “They look fine to me.” 

What else is he supposed to say? In the grand scheme of things, he has far more important matters to consider. Like, for starters, “Where’s Aunt May? When can I see her again?”

Besides the Blip - five years of oblivion that neither of them have taken time to discuss their feelings about - Peter has never been separated from her for so long. 

In the aftermath of Tony’s death, her love and support are all that has kept him sane. And evidently, they have also been the only thing keeping him alive, so he really doesn’t give a damn about clothes right now.

Will frowns and his eyebrows knit together. He is generally indifferent, but Peter’s obvious disinterest grates on him. He is making an effort. Though he knows intellectually that Peter is going through a lot, the boy’s callous disregard still hurts a bit. 

Will hates how easily affected he is by the teen’s words, after a mere two-day acquaintance.

“Your aunt is safe, that’s about all I’m at liberty to say.” Peter’s ghastly expression, the way his face seems to crumple in on itself, his brown eyes dampened with tears, provokes Will to break protocol. “She’s being cared for at a health retreat in Inverness. You will be reunited with her at summer’s end.”

Peter sniffs. One corner of his mouth turns up in an ugly, wry half-smile. “What you mean to say is that she’s in rehab, and I won’t see her again until the last week in September. Is that about right?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right.” Will puts the shirt and slacks on hangers and puts them back in the wardrobe. “It’s not all bad, though, is it? You’ll both have gotten through the worst of your detoxification processes. It will almost be like you were never separated in the first place.”

Will realizes he’s made a mistake the second the words leave his mouth. “It’s not all bad? Are you seriously trying to tell me there’s some silver lining here, if I look hard enough? Is that what you’re trying to say, Will?” Peter’s eyes are ablaze, wet and red-rimmed, the thin webs of blood vessels seeming to pulsate.

Will unconsciously takes a few steps back. He’s done it now. Peter follows him, stopping inches from his face. His breath is hot and still smells of chips as he tells Will off. 

“Listen here, Billy Boy: I may not be as strong as you. I may not be as tall as you, as old as you, have as much experience as you. I may not be as cool as you. But you know what? I have all of the same powers you have. You know something else we have in common? Quentin Beck! 

You say he beat you to a pulp and broke your neck? I wish the bastard had done me the favor! I know you’ve been tracking Beck for months, so you know the basics of what happened to me. At the risk of being repetitive, let me remind you: Beck made me think he was a superhero from another world. He manipulated me into giving him some of the most powerful WMD technology in the world. He tried to kill me and my friends.

He framed me for the Battle of London, the scenario with the Elementals. He revealed my secret identity to the whole world. As a result, I had to leave all of my friends and the girl I loved. He kidnapped me from what was supposed to be a top level S.H.I.E.L.D. safehouse, taking me away from my aunt and the only other person alive who gives a rat’s ass about me.

For a month, he brainwashed me and used me as a sex slave. The things he made me do were disgusting. _He raped me,_ Will. The worst part of it all is that I liked it. I liked it! You know what else? He came after me in London. I sneaked out and went for a walk in Hyde Park about 4:00 this morning, and he showed up.

I beat the shit out of him, but he got away. Too bad you were so 'knackered.' You might have been able to make him pay for what he did to you. But you know what? I’m kind of glad he got away. Hell, I almost wish I’d gone with him! I can’t think of anything worse than being stuck here with you for the next seven weeks. I think I’d rather die.”

Will stares at Peter impassively, his arms folded over his chest. “Is that all? Are you quite finished?” 

His cold detachment outrages Peter. He forms a fist and pulls his hand back, ready to punch Will in the face. Instead he punches the wall beside Will’s head, his knuckles cracking as they collide with the stone. His punch chips the stone and leaves small spots of blood.

Wordlessly, Peter storms away from Will, through the bedroom and kitchen and out the front door. 

The sound of the door slamming shut behind him sounds like a gunshot.


	27. Queens English

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter needs to work on his accent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention: this chapter does very little to advance the so-called plot, and is entirely self-indulgent.

It is early evening. The air is soggy with humidity. Peter rolls the sleeves of his hoodie up to his elbows. He pulls the drawstring tight and stares at the ground in order to hide his red, tear-streaked face.

There aren’t many people out and about in town. Maybe they are working, sitting in their living rooms eating. Or maybe they are in a booth at the local pub, drinking ale, eating fish and chips, watching a football game on the telly.

Whatever they are doing, everyone is simply going about their lives. It must be nice, Peter thinks, not to have to worry about saving the world. To be concerned with little more than bills, work, and spending time with their families. Mundane matters.

Northmoor Green is a quaint little town. “Little” is perhaps the most apt description. Besides the residential area, there is a village hall, a single pub just outside the village limits, and a church.

Peter gravitates toward the church, a small, simple stone structure with a bell tower above the front entrance, and a stone cross over the back of the building. That must be where the altar is. Peter stops to read the notices posted on the walls of the covered gate at the entrance.

The Church of St. Peter and St. John is a parish church of the national Church of England. Its services are at 9:00 every Sunday morning. There are a few announcements related to congregational affairs: an upcoming vestry meeting, a luncheon, a classical concert by a visiting choir. 

A small pink post it note fixed to the board with a thumbtack catches Peter’s eye. The church is ‘actively seeking a part-time sexton. Wages and hours to be discussed. If interested, inquire within.’ 

Peter feels a wave of excitement that leaves him giddy. He leans on the board for support and takes a few deep, slow breaths.

Something as simple as a job advertisement is not typically cause for celebration. Peter has always been well cared for, to the extent of being coddled. Throughout his life, he has been spoiled and repressed. Aunt May’s helicopter parenting following Uncle Ben’s death grew after Tony’s death. 

She had struggled in the first year after Peter gained his powers to loosen the leash, knowing that as a teenager, Peter needed room to grow and make his own mistakes. Without her near-constant supervision, Peter did grow, and made (in his mind) plenty of mistakes, some with fatal consequences. 

In the absence of any sort of parental figure, Peter feels rudderless. Like it or not (he most decidedly does not), Peter knows he needs to do something to shake himself out of his paralysis.

If he ever hopes to stand on his own, he has to take the first step. Peter pushes his hood back and combs his fingers through his hair. It’s been a couple of days since he’s showered. Peter hopes that the clean black jeans, trainers, and spritz of cologne he’s borrowed from Will (Aventus by Creed) offset the drabness of Beck’s UC Riverside hoodie.

He strolls through the churchyard, past a few benches and a small graveyard by the door. He doesn’t see another way in, so he turns the knob. Locked, of course. It’s only Friday, after all. Peter sighs and sits heavily on the first bench. He leans his cheek on one hand and taps the handrail restively.

He doesn’t know what to do now. He’s not ready to go back to the cottage, not ready to face Will again. Let the little dandy stew for a while. Peter knows that he needs time to calm down, too. If he loses his temper and comes to blows with the man who basically saved his life, he cringes to think of what might result. 

He is no weakling by any means, but Will is fitter, and outweighs him by at least 15 pounds. Even if Peter manages to reach his goal of 125 lbs by the end of the summer, he still doesn’t want to be on the business end of Will’s fist. 

As reserved and civil as he is, Peter senses that when deeply provoked, Will can wipe the floor with his opponent. Peter groans when he remembers what he said to Will before stomping off like an enraged child.

If he had been in Will’s place, Peter would not have hesitated to put some distance between them, if that entailed shoving him away. Peter feels a renewal of respect for Will, for having the fortitude not to knock him back into the far wall.

Peter’s hand starts to burn. He stops tapping the rail and examines the scraped, swollen skin of his knuckles. He’s probably fractured the bones. Peter buries his injured hand into his pocket and bows his head.

“Oh my God,” he moans. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“Ah, there you are, Peter. I hoped I’d find you here.” Will sits at the other end of the bench. “Where else would I be? There’s nothing going on at the village hall, and I’m too young for a pint at the pub. Even with a fake I.D., there’s no way I could pass for 18.”

“Too right.” Will’s tone of voice is deadpan, entirely at odds with his cheeky grin. “They card me every time I go in!” He laughs and crosses his leg over his knee. “It’s good to know they’re consistent, at least.”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “It’s like they want to keep their liquor license, or something.” Will laughs again and nudges Peter’s side with his shoulder. “You could pass for a proper Brit with that attitude. You just need to work a bit on that accent of yours.”

“What do you mean?” Peter gives Will a withering scowl. “What’s wrong with my accent?” Will sighs and looks up at the sky. _**“What’s wrong with my accent?”**_ he mocks, exaggerating Peter’s nasally whine.

“Alright, alright.” Peter glares at him. “I see what you mean. I mean, I hear what you mean.” He clears his throat. “Please, sir, can I have some... _more help_?” He maintains a serious, humble expression as Will holds his sides and quakes with laughter.

“You’re a cheeky bastard,” he mutters, when he manages to stop. “In case no one’s ever told you.” “I know,” Peter says, reverting to his normal New York accent. “I really do need to work on it, though. I could use your help with that.”

“And you’ll have it.” Will abruptly pulls Peter’s hand out of his hoodie pocket. His face falls at the bruises and bloody welts on his knuckles. “Good Lord, Peter,” he stammers. “I knew you hit the wall hard, but I guess I underestimated how hard.” 

He holds Peter’s hand and presses his wrist. Thin gossamer strands emerge, and Will turns Peter’s hand. The webbing wraps around his knuckles and palm, stopping the remaining bleeding and sealing his wounds. 

Peter stares in astonishment at the makeshift bandage and takes Will’s hand. He traces Will’s wrist with his forefinger, from the base of his palm to the edge of his pulse point. “Whoa!” he exclaims. “How did you do that? Does your body make its own webbing?”

“Yes,” Will says. “Doesn’t yours?”

“No! I have to make up my own web fluid with silk polymers and - I’m sorry, this is incredible! I’m really geeking out right now!” His eyes shine as he pulls Will’s wrist closer. “Have you always been able to make your own webbing, biologically?”

“No. For the first year or so, I had to create my own polymer blend. One day, I was in a pinch with a pickpocket and had forgotten my web shooter. You can imagine my surprise when I pressed down on my wrist, and webbing shot out.”

“That’s amazing! Maybe it’s like some sort of superhuman puberty, or something. I wonder when and if I’ll be able to do that? What if it’s one of those inconstant factors across the multiverse? What if there’s a way to combine biological and synthetic webbing? What if -”

“So sorry to interrupt you during such a riveting discussion Peter, but we really should head back to the cottage soon. I phoned in an order for pizza from North Petherton a half hour ago. Pepperoni and pineapple.”

Peter smiles and winks. “Right, then, mate, lead the way. You teach me **_'the Queen’s English,'_** and maybe I’ll teach you some _Queens English_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last time the author will mention this, cross her heart. Will Braddock/Spider-UK in this story is conceptualized as Thomas Brodie-Sangster, one of the her favorite actors alongside Tom Holland. Two Toms are better than one. 😄
> 
> The joke about Peter being _'a cheeky bastard'_ is that when he asks Will for _'some...more help?'_ he is referencing the infamous line from the _Oliver!_ film (1968) when poor little Oliver Twist asks the mean workhouse chaplain for more gruel to eat.


	28. The Humbling River

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes for a swim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Pay no mind to the battles you've won  
> It'll take a lot more than rage and muscle  
> Open your heart and hands, my son  
> Or you'll never make it o'er the river."
> 
> -Puscifer

“I don’t think we’re supposed to be here.” Peter stands on the riverbank in the faint lunar light with his arms hanging limply at his sides. “Are you sure we won’t get in trouble?”

“Not as long as we don’t get caught. I dunno what we’ll do if that should happen. I mean, it isn’t like we have some sort of special abilities that could give us a leg up, or anything.” 

Will steps lightly into the water. He dives into the depths and rises in the middle of the river. He looks like a water sprite, causing waves and ripples as he shakes his head back and sweeps his hands through his hair.

He turns to Peter and grins as he treads water. “C’mon in, Parker, the water’s fine.” Peter stands rooted to the spot, biting his fingernails nervously. He should not feel this afraid or shy. He'd thought that any shred of shyness or shame he once had had been stripped away from him.

Peter tries to hide his face to compose himself. The vision of Will standing with his hands resting on his hips discomfits him. Peter has never seen his bare chest, and it brings up memories of Beck he would rather forget.

Peter glances up when he hears Will chuckle. He floats with his shoulders just above the surface of the water. “Or just stay there, if you’re afraid. I don’t care either way.” 

Afraid. Yeah, he’s afraid. Peter steps into the water without looking at Will. He wades in to his waist and skims the water with his hands. It is refreshingly cool to the touch.

Will ducks beneath the surface. Peter can barely see the form of his body as he swims underwater toward the far side of the bank. He comes up and inhales deeply, droplets of water clinging to his eyelashes. With a heave, he sits on the far bank and turns toward Peter, scarcely visible.

With this much distance between them, Peter whimpers and scratches the side of his head. He can’t tell if it’s due to dread or eagerness. He barely knows what he intends to do until he dives under the water and swims toward Will.

Peter rises a few yards from the shoreline, turns his back on Will and treads water. There is a soft splash as Will leaps back into the river. Peter can feel the older teen watching him. “Peter,” he murmurs from close behind. “What are you doing?”

Peter pauses. Will, just a couple of inches taller, is able to stand without dog paddling. He holds Peter’s underarms, his thumbs resting lightly on his back. Peter turns his head a little. He can’t see Will, but can feel the water surface flow and break behind his back. His breath, already discordant, stops altogether.

“Peter,” Will repeats, an edge to his voice. “What are you doing?” His breath is hot and harsh against Peter’s skin. Will pushes the river bottom with his feet and floats backward, taking Peter with him.

“No!” Peter yelps abruptly. He turns sharply and breaks out of Will’s hold. “I’m not a g-goddamn child, Will. Don’t f-fucking treat me like one! Don’t touch me.” Will frowns in confusion, an arm’s length away from him.

He can’t see Peter’s face clearly through the curtain of his hair, just the shadows and planes of it. His heart is pounding. He doesn’t know if he wants to argue or heed Peter’s wish. He chooses to do both.

He takes a deep breath and speaks cautiously. “I know you aren’t a child, Peter. I’m sorry if I gave you the impression otherwise.” He tries to smile, but it’s awkward and cartoonish, more of a leer.

He scoffs and slams his fist into the water in frustration. 

“Look, I’m trying here, Peter. I’m really trying. I’m not so good with these emotional bits. Good God, man, give me a break! I’m British; I’m only allowed to show affection to dogs and horses. No, I’m a British _man_ ; I’m not supposed to show any emotion at all, whatsoever. Unless Arsenal ever loses to Tottenham - then you’re going to see an emotional reaction from me, like it or not.”

Peter snorts a thin gob of phlegm from his nose. “Yuck,” he says sheepishly. He splashes water on his face. “Shut up! I’m mad at you right now, you’re not supposed to make me laugh.”

“Ah, yet another thing I can’t help. It’s hardly my fault I’m so fundamentally amusing.” Peter laughs, and Will manages a genuine smile. He watches Peter swim toward him. He wants to reach out, to grab the boy’s hand and help him along, but he doesn’t want to risk angering him again.

“Did you really mean that stuff you said back at the cottage?” He sounds wistful and wounded. Peter shakes his head, his mouth agape at Will’s sulky demeanor. His lower lip protrudes and his chin quivers.

“No, of course not!” Peter cringes when he remembers his exact phrasing.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for what I said. I know you don’t know me that well, but I promise, that was out of character. The truth is I’ve changed so much, I hardly recognize myself anymore. And summer’s only half over. I’m sorry, Will. I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it."

Will sniffs and coughs into his fist. “I acknowledge your apology, Peter, and I accept it. Please do close your mouth, it’s rude to stand there with it open, you know. It makes you look like a simpleton.”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Peter snickers and pats Will’s back. He’s still skittish about direct contact, but less so when he initiates it. He bites his lip to stop the frown that wants to form in response to Will’s apparent indifference.

“I’m sorry, too, for belittling what happened between you and Beck. I know he’s a cruel man, but that was _beyond cruel_. That was **evil**. I’m so sorry you had to go through that.” 

Peter’s hand drops to his side. He’s still curious to learn the particulars of how Will survived, but thankfully tactful enough not to press the issue. There is a time and place for it.

“And Will...th-thank...you…” Peter leans his hands on his knees and crouches in the shallow water by the shore. He feels mud, scum, and other detritus squelch between his toes.

“Damn,” he mutters. “I think I’m gonna cry. Y’know, I’m pretty much a B-Brit too, if you round up a little bit. More than 75% of my ancestry is B-British - specifically, English. I sh-should work on this whole ‘stiff upper lip’ thing.”

“Bloody hell.” Will hugs Peter and pulls him up out of the mire. He nearly loses his trunks, but Will catches them. He rubs his back with one hand and cups the back of his neck with the other.

“Go ahead and cry, Peter. It’s not healthy to stuff all your emotions down. You have to acknowledge and process them. Forget all that stereotypical bullshit. A ‘real man’ - British or otherwise - lets himself have a good cry now and again. Carry on.”

He does.


	29. Brick By Boring Brick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Will bond over tea and biscuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers: This chapter is what the author would like to refer to as "fluffy filler," yet another deeply introspective interlude that does not do much to advance the "plot."

Nine months to the day of Tony’s death falls on a Sunday. Peter wakes at 6:00 and quietly puts a kettle on the stove to make tea. He walks past Will, stretched out on the sofa. He snores softly, his arm tucked under the pillow.

After three days of acquaintance, Peter has learned that Will is a heavy sleeper. Several times throughout the night, Peter has had to walk across the house to use the ‘loo.’ On his last trip, Peter stubbed his toe on the edge of the kitchen counter. His pained yelp and expletive failed to wake Will, who snorted and turned over.

Peter thinks back to their night at the Queens Park Hotel. It’s no wonder he was able to sneak out. He laughs and fills the kettle with hot water. The stove is an old model from the 1960’s. A morbid thought abruptly passes through his mind.

Thanks to MJ’s fascination with Sylvia Plath, Peter is aware that she committed suicide by sticking her head in an oven and cranking up the gas. He feels OK at the moment, but when the plummeting depression hits him, Peter thinks he’ll tell Will to turn off the gas for a while. Just to be safe.

The aches in his muscles may be the worst part about withdrawal so far. As comfortable as the bed is, Peter can hardly sleep for the persistent, painful twinges in his arms and legs. He has dealt with the insomnia by turning on the TV, keeping the volume low as he watches old reruns of Dr. Who.

Through it all, Will sleeps undisturbed. It’s no less than he deserves, Peter muses as he steeps a bag of Darjeeling tea in the boiling water. He envies Will’s penchant for slumber, how he seems to fall asleep before his head even hits the pillow.

Being Peter’s caretaker, for lack of a better word, exhausts him. Peter is determined to learn more about Will. Someday soon, when they have settled into a routine and come to a point that they can tolerate each other’s idiosyncrasies, Peter wants to sit down with him at the kitchen table and pick his brain.

He has never been so eager to get to know someone. As a general rule, Peter does not take much of an interest in other people’s lives. It’s not that he is indifferent or unfeeling. Far from it; he feels too much. 

In an effort to cope with the hardships that occur as occupational hazards of his activities, Peter’s brain blocks out the experiences that are too painful or shameful to entertain. That is, at least, how his brain functioned in the span of time between Tony’s death and the events of the Battle of London.

The carefully constructed walls his mind had erected around those traumatic events have been demolished brick by brick. He is tentative about probing the depths of Will’s trauma, even after essentially vomiting his all over him.

Peter pours two cups of tea. He sets the teacups on miniature white saucers and carries them to the table. Will stirs and saunters over to sit beside Peter. “Good morning,” he says rotely. It is anything but.

“Hey,” Peter says. He takes a sip of tea and nearly spits it out. “Ouch, it’s too hot! Wait a few minutes before you drink yours.”

“You’re too impatient, Peter. ‘All good things to those who wait.’ I don’t know who said that little axiom, but it’s true.” Will stands up and gets a couple of spoons. He opens the cabinet and grabs a bag.

“You haven’t lived until you’ve had one of these.” He tears the bag open and pushes it over to Peter. “What are they?” Peter picks up a purple and brown bar and reads the label. “Oh, they’re biscuits. What we Yanks would call cookies.”

He rips the package and shoves two biscuits in his mouth. Will watches in horror as he chews them hungrily. The malted biscuits with the soft chocolate filling are so delicious Peter moans.

“Good God, man, has nobody ever told you it’s impolite to chew with your mouth full?” Will’s dour expression is so comical Peter laughs, spraying crumbs across the table. He covers his mouth and snickers into his hand.

Will sighs and brushes the crumbs off the table. “Honestly. I can only imagine the straits you put your aunt in.” Peter bristles at the mention of Aunt May, but Will’s teasing smile soothes his nerves.

As does Will’s hand as he runs his fingers through his hair. He looks to be making a concerted effort. He frowns and the edge of his tongue sticks out of his mouth as he tries to straighten Peter’s disheveled hair.

“You don’t use any sort of product in your hair.” It’s not a question. Aunt May has tried over the years to gently persuade Peter to use gel. And he’s tried a few times, if only to please her.

“No, I don’t, because it’s annoying. I have to get up so early to get ready for school, I only have time to grab a bagel and go. I have to be at the bus stop by 7:15.”

“And what’s your excuse during the holidays?” Will smirks and crosses his arms. Peter eats another biscuit. He tries and fails to think of an adequate explanation, so he doesn’t offer one. Will will just dismiss whatever he says as an excuse, anyway.

“These are really good,” he comments. “They’re even better than Penguins.”

“You got that right! Arnott’s makes both brands, but Tim Tams are clearly superior. I discovered them on a trip to Queensland as a child. Now, I have Uncle Brian send them at least once every few months.” “Is he stationed in Australia?” Peter stirs a pinch of sugar into his saucer and takes a sip.

“No, he never stays put in one place for long. He’s what I’d call a transient traveler. He travels throughout the multiverse. Whichever universe he’s in, he always makes a stop in Australia and sends them to me through the post. It takes about a month to get the stuff. Well worth the wait, though.”

“Why don’t you just order them online and have them delivered?” Peter bites into his fifth biscuit. Will clucks his tongue and takes the packet away. “Slow down, you’ve eaten nearly half the packet in 10 minutes!”

“Sorry, I guess. I’m sure you’re aware that the munchies are part of my withdrawal.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Go ahead and eat the rest.” He shoves the package back toward Peter and stands up. “I’m going to wash the dishes. Are you done with your cup and saucer?” 

He clears off the table without waiting for an answer. He’s elbow deep in soapy dishwater before Peter realizes Will never answered his question.


	30. Only Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes to church.

A few hours later, Peter slips into the back pew of the Church of St. Peter and St. John. 

The Sunday service is in session. There are about 25 parishioners scattered throughout the sanctuary. As he enters, the priest - a middle-aged woman with close-cropped black hair - is reading from the Gospel of St. John.

Her eyes briefly shift to Peter. Her piercing gray gaze burns a little, as if she can see into his soul. Peter has to subdue the urge to duck down and hide in the pew. As if he has done something wrong. As if he does not deserve to be here.

No one else in the building so much as glances in his direction. Peter feels grateful and a bit resentful. While May put her foot down and insured that Peter was brought up Roman Catholic, Uncle Ben was Episcopalian/Anglican. As were all the Parkers, essentially, dating all the way back to the Church of England’s split with Rome in 1534.

Peter doesn’t have a printed copy of the order of service, but it’s similar enough to a Catholic service that he can follow along, if he chooses to. He doesn’t, but finds the timbre and cadence of the priest’s voice comforting. She drones on, commenting on the reading. Blah blah, Jesus, truth, blah.

“Do you really believe all this bullshit?” 

The words aren’t exactly a whisper, but low enough not to attract attention. Peter looks to his right, and there’s Tony. He bites his lip to stifle a surprised squeal of delight. “M-Mr. Stark! What are you doing here?! What the f -”

“Shh, careful, you’re in church. You don’t want to offend the big man upstairs. He might send down a bolt of lightning and fry your ass.” Tony crosses his arms behind his head and leans his feet over the back of the pew in front of them.

Peter covers his mouth to muffle his snort. No one looks askance at him, their eyes riveted on the priest. “You’re such a hypocrite,” Peter whispers. He elbows Tony’s side, and is rewarded with a thump on the side of the head.

“Ouch!” Peter rubs his head. “You didn’t have to do that. And, to answer your question: No, I don’t believe ‘all this bullshit.’ I haven’t for a while, at least since I was old enough to think critically. So, not since I was 8 or so.”

“So why are you here? Why do you keep coming, knowing it’s all a fairytale?”

“I didn’t really plan to come today. It just kind of happened. Will - the guy I’m staying with - is giving me the silent treatment, pretty much. I came here to get out of the house, and there’s not really much else to do here. As for why I keep coming...I guess I do it because even though I’m not a believer, Aunt May is. I want to make her happy. To me that’s worth losing an extra hour of sleep, a few times a year.”

“That’s sweet, kid. Like what I did with Grandma Collins as a kid. I went to church with her ‘til Confirmation, at least. After that, I gave up the pretense.” Tony sits up, takes a red prayer book from the hymn rack and flips through its pages. 

“Huh, at least they’re using more contemporary language. When I was a kid, we used the 1928 BCP, and the KJV. Boring! Now, about this Will kid…”

“It’s not like that, Mr. Stark. He actually saved me from Beck. We’re not like, ‘shacking up’ or whatever people called it when you were young. We’re not staying in a shack, either, like that first place in Shetland. It’s a lot better.”

“That makes me feel a little bit better. At least Beck’s not using you as - pardon the turn of phrase - his little peter parker anymore.” Tony grins and slaps Peter’s back as his face turns bright red. “Sh-shut up about that. We’re in church, Mr. Stark.”

“No worries, kid. The Church of England’s pretty liberal about that stuff these days. Hell, I’ve heard they even let gays get married.” Tony’s face contorts as if he’s sucked on a lemon. 

On seeing Peter’s scowl, he says, “Oh, don’t think I’m a ‘bigot’ or a hater. I say, people are gonna do whatever the heck they want, legally or not. I like V myself, but it makes no difference to me if you like P better than V. That’s your choice, kid, and I respect that.”

“I don’t -” Peter’s face is now redder than a fire hydrant, if that’s possible. “I don’t know what I prefer, Mr. Stark. Beck’s the only person I’ve had...that with, so far. Dude, shut up, we really shouldn’t be talking about this shit in church!”

A few rows ahead, an elderly woman turns and scowls at Peter. Tony flips her the bird. She mutters under her breath and turns back toward the front. The priest is intoning the prayers of the people, her hands held aloft in petition.

“What do you think that’s about?” Tony quips. “You think she’s trying to adjust the antennae so God’ll hear her better?” Peter is shaking, clutching his sides with silent laughter.

“I’m serious, Peter. This is a level of bullshit you’d normally only see on American television. Y’know, those money-grubbing types blabbing on about ‘sowing your seed.’ Then they’ll go backstage during commercial breaks and sow some seeds with their secretaries and cute interns. And people just lap that shit up.”

“Maybe she really does feel connected to some higher power,” Peter says. “It’s not our place to judge what other people believe, really. Even the Bible says that, I think. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged,’ etc.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. People believe what they wanna believe. The poor saps, they’re so easy to fool when they’re already fooling themselves. So, this conversation’s getting a little boring. Let’s change the subject. Tell me a little bit about this new setup you have with this boy you’re ‘not shacking up with.’ Is it like a farm, or what?”

“It’s a little stone cottage with a thatched roof, a single story. It’s OK I guess, a lot nicer than that cabin. It has cable, indoor plumbing, a shower. It’s good.” Peter smiles as he realizes that yeah, he has it pretty good, considering.

The priest seems to be drawing to a close. The parishioners start to fidget and glance at their watches. It’s 9:30, about time for Communion. First, though, the congregants will rise and greet one another ‘with the peace of Christ.’

It’s the part of the service Peter dreads. Tony does too, apparently.

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, kid. I’ve missed you. I’m sorry for staying away so long. And sorry for the things I said to hurt your feelings, huh? You know I didn’t mean any of it. Sorry to leave so soon, but I never was one for schmoozing, you know? Bye buddy, see you soon. I love you.”

“Bye, Mr. Stark. I l-love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BCP refers to the Book of Common Prayer, the prayer book for the Church of England.
> 
> The author does not intend offense toward anyone who holds to religious or spiritual beliefs, nor does she want to put those who do not on a pedestal.


	31. 30 Minutes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's life changes forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Out of time, out of sight  
> Out of time to decide  
> Do we run?  
> Should I hide for the rest of my life?"
> 
> \- t.A.T.u.

It’s not until later - nearly a week later - that Peter realizes he’s made a terrible mistake. It’s the middle of the night. Peter and Will have gone to bed after ordering another pizza and drinking a 6-pack of Newcastle Brown between them.

Peter wakes in a cold sweat. He sits straight up in bed and moans as the room swirls around him. He hasn’t felt this sick since he was on Beck’s yacht at sea. He squints in the darkness across the room.

“Will. Will, wake up. Will!” Will snorts and sits up on the couch. He pulls a chain and the room is awash in bright fluorescent light. He burps and scratches his side. “What’s wrong, Peter? Did you have a bad dream?”

“I wish it were that simple.” Peter looks like a man standing at the base of a gallows. “Do you remember me telling you the visions I had of Mr. Stark?” As scared as he is, his voice is remarkably, eerily calm.

“Uh-huh. Did you dream about him again?” Will’s countenance is carefully neutral. In the past week and a half, Peter has progressed well. The increased hunger has resulted in him gaining at least 2 lbs.

He has night sweats and terrors, but they are less intense every night. On the rare occasion that Peter wakes up screaming, Will climbs into the bed and sleeps beside him. He sits on the opposite side of the bed now, and pulls the covers up around Peter’s shoulders.

“You’re sopping wet, Peter. Christ, I should have known better than to let you drink ale. Even if it almost your birthday, it was stupid of me. Alcohol is a depressant, y’know. And you’re already pretty gloomy.”

Peter smirks and taps Will’s forehead with his fingertip. “No kidding. Hey Will, have you ever noticed that it gets dark at night, and then lighter when the sun comes up?” He titters and blows a puff of nutty malt-scented breath in his face.

Will ignores his taunt. He looks Peter in the eye until he stops laughing. “Well, out with it. Why’d you wake me?”

“I, uh, saw Mr. Stark again.” Peter looks down at his lap to avoid Will’s stare. “I went to the church in the village last week. I saw him there. He said some...things.”

“What kind of things?” Will raises an eyebrow.

“He um, asked about where I was staying and...I told him.” Peter gulps and glances at Will. He looks at Peter mildly. “What exactly did you tell him, Peter?”

All of a sudden, there is a scraping sound on the front door. Will quickly dives forward on the floor. He shoots a small glob of webbing at the light switch. With the cottage engulfed in darkness, he spins a web across the front door and seals the small gap between the door and floor.

A small beam of bright green light manifests in the center of the room. Will ducks under the bed while Peter lays down and pulls the covers over his head. A few minutes later, the shadow of a figure falls across the walls.

Peter uncovers his head and lifts an arm to shield his eyes from the green glare. He sees the flickering light fall on a familiar opaque sphere. In the instant that Mysterio turns to take in the details of the cottage, in the moment before he recognizes Peter, Will moves, rolling out from under the bed and sweeping his leg under the intruder’s.

Mysterio catches himself mid-fall, his arms clinging to the end of the bed. His helmet falls and there is Beck, his face in varying shades of yellow. Peter’s mind and body freeze as if he has been struck by a bolt of lightning. 

Will leaps onto the mattress between them, his cheeks bright red, his eyes sepia flames. Beck does not drop his guard. He stands still, staring them down, holding a familiar black utility knife in one hand.

It looks identical to the knife he used to cut Peter’s arm. For a while, no one speaks. Peter stares at Beck with eyes wide and unblinking. He’s terrified. Will stands back and presses Peter against the headboard. His advantage vanishes in that moment.

Beck gives a sudden bitter laugh. “Billy Braddock!” he says in a strangely calm voice. “Back from the dead. Let's see if I can remedy that.” He slashes at Will with the knife. 

Will just misses his strike. He shoves Peter off the bed to put more space between him and Beck. 

“Get under the bed, Peter! No matter what happens, don’t come out!”

“Couldn't sense me coming, could you?” Beck snarls at him like a rabid dog. “I bet you never thought you’d see me again. But then you had to go and take my boy away from me. You thought you’d take him for yourself!”

Will bends down and shoots webbing into Beck’s eyes the instant he lunges toward him. Blinded, Beck keeps coming and slides the knife point between Will’s ribs. Will cries out and falls to the floor, his hand clutching his bleeding side.

“Peter,” he whispers harshly. “Get out, now!”

“No! I won’t leave you!” Peter shouts. Will rolls toward the bed. He grabs Peter’s arm, drags him out, and pushes him toward the front door. By now the web fluid has disintegrated. Beck stands in front of the door, holding the knife out, blocking Peter’s exit.

“You bastard! I’m not afraid of you!” Peter leaps toward Beck, rearing his fist back to punch his right side. Beck dodges to the side and trips over Will. Will kicks him and he collides with the wall. He is literally backed into a corner.

Peter dives toward him and knocks the knife aside. He ducks under Beck’s frantic slash and rolls to his feet. In one swift move he kicks Beck in the stomach, winding him.

Peter pauses as Beck does, each of them shifting their weight, observing. Beck grins and aims a punch toward Peter’s face. He blocks the hit, but Beck shakes him loose. He quickly bends down and picks up the knife, its blade slick with Will’s blood.

Beck immediately turns aside and Peter feels a fiery sting as the blade sinks into his stomach. Peter back hands Beck and nearly knocks him down. As Beck staggers, Peter rushes to the kitchen table and picks up the black Montblanc fountain pen that is Will’s pride and joy.

He uncaps the pen and points the nib toward Beck. He feels sweat run down his back. His throat burns, and the deep cut on his stomach bleeds profusely, dripping onto the floor. He damns his naivete and willingness to give Beck the benefit of the doubt. He regrets ever letting him go in Hyde Park.

Beck lunges straight at Peter, who nimbly rolls out of the way. He quickly turns toward Beck and stabs him in the arm with the nib, drawing blood. “Fuck you, brat!” Beck snarls. He is breathing heavily.

Peter pants, also starting to tire. He folds an arm across his bleeding stomach and glares at Beck. Beck’s eyes widen victoriously as he moves in on Peter. Peter tightens his grip on the pen, ready to plunge it into Beck’s chest.

Something blurs at the edge of Peter’s vision. Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, Will jumps on Beck and knocks him to the ground. As he is knocked off balance, Beck strikes. Peter feels a cold infusion of ice in his blood as he watches Beck stab Will in the back.

The blade ruptures his aorta. Bright red arterial blood pumps from the wound, drenching Will’s back and shoulders. “Will! Oh my God, Will!” Peter snatches Will from Beck’s grip and yanks the knife from him.

“ ** _No, Will! What the fuck did he do?!_** ” He’s suddenly sobbing, covered in Will’s blood and his own. Will smiles weakly and lifts a hand to pat Peter’s cheek. “I’m terribly sorry, Peter. I t-tried my damnedest to protect you...sorry.”

“You did try your damnedest, Billy!” Beck taunts savagely. “You just weren’t up to the task, were you? _You should have stayed dead._ I’ll make sure you do this time around.”

Peter gently lays Will down. He clutches the knife and pen in his hands and aims them at Beck. “Stay the fuck back!” he screams. “I won’t let you touch him! _**I’ll kill you first!**_ ”

Beck stands still, his gaze passing from Will bleeding out on the floor to Peter pointing the pen and blade toward him with trembling hands. For several moments his face holds no expression. Then he frowns and his face turns red.

“Kill me?” he murmurs in disbelief. “You don’t have it in you, Peter.”

“ _Oh yes the hell I do!_ _I hate you, Beck!_ _**I will kill you!**_ ” Peter jumps forward and stabs Beck in the neck with the pen and knife from opposing sides. Beck sputters and spits, falling to the floor in a heap.

Peter hears sirens outside. Then, the sound of car doors slamming and loud voices.

“Attention, this is the police! We have the house surrounded. Come out with your hands up!”


	32. Heart's A Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter's heart breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You have lost  
> Too much love  
> To fear, doubt and distrust  
> It's not enough  
> You just threw away the key  
> To your heart."
> 
> -Gotye

In the flashing blue lights, blood spills from Will’s back and side and pools beneath his body on the floor. It trickles down each side of Beck’s neck where Peter stabbed him, just above his clavicle. It drips from Peter’s torso. 

Peter turns toward the door and takes a deep, stuttering breath to compose himself. 

He holds onto the door frame, and slowly walks out into the yard with his hands in the air.

“Officers, thank God you’re here.” He forces the tremor from his voice. “My friend and I have been attacked.” Several officers storm into the cottage. 

Peter looks back as they surround Beck, lifting him from the carpet as they handcuff him. 

He doesn’t struggle, but stares blankly at Peter as blood drips down his neck.

Will’s brown eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling. His mouth hangs open in a small _o_ of surprise. His skin has taken on an ashen, waxy pallor. 

Peter shakes and moans at the memory of the blade slipping between his ribs and piercing his aorta.

A bitter, black fury boils up in him. He clenches his eyes shut and struggles to contain it. He keeps his eyes closed as the constable phones for an ambulance. Peter presses a hand to his lacerated stomach and hopes Beck dies before it arrives.

When he opens his eyes, a young officer is standing in front of him with a grim expression on his face. He tries to smile, but ends up grimacing. He clears his throat and looks right at Peter with his sharp cobalt blue eyes.

“Hello. I’m Officer Dai Thomas with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary. What is your name?” Peter sniffs and lowers his hands a bit. “Parker,” he says coldly. “My name is Peter Parker. You might know me better as Spider-Man.”

Officer Thomas’s eyes widen in horror. He stares at Peter in stunned silence, as if he has spontaneously burst into flame. Peter glares back, his eyes stinging with tears, and feels the full force of what he’s done.

“Please take him away,” he begs. He jerks a thumb behind him to indicate Beck. He refuses to look back at him. He can’t, but he feels him there, the bastard, staring at him, somehow still conscious.

The police officer makes a sound that is half grunt and half laugh. “Not to worry, Sp - Peter. The ambulance is on its way, it’ll be here soon. You’ll need to be tended to as well.”

“And Will,” Peter insists. “Make sure they take good care of Will.” Behind him, Beck laughs and spits. “Oh, they’ll take good care of him, alright. They’ll get him a body bag.”

Peter turns and rushes toward Beck, holding an arm against his stomach. “Fuck you!” he shouts, his lip curled in hatred. “You better be glad the cops are here to protect you. You better hope they guard you good, but you should still sleep with one eye open.”

“Ooh, brave words. I’m really scared now, you’ve got me shaking in my shoes.” Peter grabs Beck’s throat, shoving aside the officer who tries to stop him. He winces as he picks Beck up. “If I could, I’d spin a noose out of webbing and strangle you with my bare hands.”

Peter sets him down and pulls the pen and knife from the sides of his neck. Beck’s blood flows freely. He gasps and falls to his knees. “Peter,” Officer Thomas says from behind him. “Stop.”

Peter snaps the pen apart and drops the knife in the grass. “Peter,” Officer Thomas tries again. “Don’t do it. I know you’re angry, kid. I know you needed us earlier, and I’m sorry. But we’re here now, Peter. Let us help you.”

Peter turns around and scowls. The officer moves tentatively and lifts a hand toward him. “Peter!” There is no fear or anger in his voice. He is sorrowful. “I’m not here to hurt you, kid. Nobody’s going to hurt you, OK? I’m here to protect you.”

Officer Thomas’s voice wavers. His carefully constructed RP English accent slips into a rhythmic Welsh dialect. Peter’s mouth twists. With every breath he takes, the muscles of his cheeks tighten in pain and fury. He looks at Officer Thomas and bares his teeth before his gaze passes to Beck.

They stare at one another for a long time. Their looks hold all of the truth between them. Peter regrets ever trusting Beck, and vows to never trust anyone as readily again. He is so enraged he feels dizzy. The torment is even worse than the night Beck held him down and raped him.

“Peter,” Beck says suddenly. “Look at me.”

Peter blinks at the sound of his voice. He turns his head to the side, as if hearing it from far away. His face crumples, his eyes brimming with tears as he turns his head towards the sky. “God help me,” he moans pitifully. “Please help me.”

“Think of Aunt May,” Beck hisses, and his words cut deeper than the knife. “Fuck you,” Peter says hoarsely. Peter grunts incredulously as Officer Thomas pulls his hands behind his back and handcuffs him. He glowers at the officer balefully.

“You’re alright, Peter,” Officer Thomas says firmly. “This is just part of the procedure. It’s a formality. I have to keep you both constrained until the ambulance gets here and you get medical treatment. Then, I’ll have to ask you to make a statement, alright?”

Peter’s lips tremble. He darts his gaze from the officer to Beck, to Will’s immobile form. “I don’t understand this,” he says desperately. “Why isn’t Will getting up? Will, come on man, get up! You don’t have to fight anymore, we’re safe now!”

“Peter…” Officer Thomas rests a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything.

“Oh well, if I have to rot in jail, better an English one than S.H.I.E.L.D.'s, I guess.” Beck breathes deeply, his features twisted in hatred and pain as he glares at Peter. “Well well, Peter, what do you think? Did his skinny little English cock feel good up your bunghole?”

In the bright blue light, Peter lifts his eyes from the ground and stares at Beck blankly. “I don’t know,” he says. “I’ve never had the pleasure. I’m sure it would have felt a million times better than your little 4-inch dick, though.”

He sees a faint brush of Beck’s eyelashes, a brief expression pass over his face so quickly that it’s impossible to decipher before it’s gone. He grins at Peter maniacally. “Your little boyfriend’s dead,” he says bluntly. “He bled out like a stuck pig on a spit, or did you somehow miss that?”

Peter feels his heart break in his chest, shatter into pieces that can never be put back together. 

“I want my Aunt May,” he says. He sinks to his knees in the grass and wails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Officer Dai Thomas appears in the comics as a supporting character and occasional antagonist of Captain Britain. In the comics he is middle-aged and is a detective with the Metropolitan Police in London. 
> 
> In the story he is in his late 20's, in his early days of police work - for the time being with the Avon & Somerset Police force. His appearance and portrayal are informed and inspired by Iwan Rheon.


	33. Evelyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A compassionate nurse helps Peter hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Stay with me, Evelyn  
> Don't leave me with the medicine...  
> I'm more afraid than I've ever been  
> So stay with me, Evelyn."
> 
> \- Hurts

Peter wants to leave the hospital against medical advice. 

When he protests, the nurse blandly informs Peter that, as a minor, he is not allowed to check himself out. Peter frowns and rolls his eyes at the news, which isn’t really news at all. 

He is 17 now, and will spend his birthday in Southmead Hospital in Bristol. _At least his birthday._ He has no clue how long they might try to keep him here.

The laceration across his stomach is deep. But, because he was admitted to the hospital less than an hour after the injury was made, his wound is cleaned and stitched closed. It takes 13 stitches. The wound is then covered with a gauze bandage affixed with medical tape. 

The nurse’s name is Evelyn. She is a pretty redhead in her early 30’s. 

When Peter sulks and glowers at her, she smiles and touches his cheek. 

“Sorry, but I’m not sorry, love. Kids these days, you lot are all in a rush to grow up. Slow down a bit. Enjoy your life while you’re young.”

Peter laughs bitterly. “ _Enjoy_ my life. I’m not sure I understand the meaning of the word anymore.” He hiccups. 

Evelyn sits in the chair at his bedside. 

“I’ll not sit here and judge you for it, but it’s awfully sad to hear somebody so young talk so cynically. I’m here for a while, if you want to talk.”

“Sorry,” Peter says straight away. “It’s not really something I can talk much about.”

“Oh I don’t mean that, hon. What happened to you before you ended up here is your business. Keeping you settled and somewhat entertained while you’re here is my business. So, I saw in your chart that today’s your birthday.”

“Yeah, and it’s been a real bang-up day so far.” Peter snorts. The movement makes his stomach hurt. He moans and rests a hand on the bandage. 

Evelyn frowns worriedly and excuses herself for a moment.

When she comes back, she’s holding a small cup of red liquid. “Paracetamol,” she explains to Peter’s raised eyebrow. “There’s nothing stronger we can give you for the pain, while you’re coming off that other stuff.” 

She speaks flatly and directly, without a hint of condescension or reproach. Peter takes the cup from her and sips it down. The liquid feels cool and soothes his throat. “Thanks,” he murmurs.

Evelyn nods and sits down again. “You’ll get through this,” she says abruptly. “It may be hard to see that now, but sooner or later, things will change. You’ll see.” She reaches over and brushes an errant lock of hair out of Peter’s eyes.

He’s overdue for a trim. His hair has grown nearly two inches over the summer, and the hint of a beard and mustache are starting to show. After the first glance, he avoids looking at himself in the mirror when he goes to the bathroom. He’s changed too much, he thinks.

But too much for what? He doesn’t know the answer. All Peter knows is that, for better or worse, he is no longer the same person he was before. Fundamentally, he has the same values, the same drive to help others. 

But the jejune, sarcastic, fun-loving side of him is gone. That side of his personality has died a slow, agonizing death that was finalized when he witnessed Will’s murder.

 _Murder_. The word seems insufficient. It doesn’t do justice to the rage, the pain, and the trauma Peter wrestles with. The _'incident'_ occurred only six hours ago. Beck is in custody, under armed guard at a hospital in Taunton. 

Meanwhile, Will Braddock is in a morgue elsewhere in Bristol. 

His uncle Brian has been informed, and is en route.

Peter is able to tolerate it all because he is under heavy sedation. 

Apparently, at the scene of the crime he shouted and sobbed and made such a scene that the residents of Northmoor Green were alarmed. Officer Thomas dispensed with protocol and held Peter until the ambulance arrived and a sedative was administered.

Peter has slept for five hours, and been awake all of 15 minutes. “I will get through this, I guess,” he agrees. “I always get through things. I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”

Evelyn looks at him sharply. Peter laughs and lays back in the bed with an ugly sneer. Evelyn looks at his arm, her attention drawn by the jagged, pale pink scar tissue. She looks at his bandaged stomach and shakes her head sadly. She takes his hand. The chains of the handcuffs rattle as she presses her forehead to his fist.

“I’m sorry,” she says brokenly. “I am so, so sorry. You dear child.” Peter lets her hold his hand, but doesn’t unclench his fist. Evelyn turns his wrist and kisses his closed fingers. 

“Things will get better,” she says. “Can you believe that? Whatever has happened to you may have been outside of your control. But now it’s all over, you do have control.”

She lifts her face to see Peter smiling down at her sadly. “I don’t think that’s entirely true, Evelyn. If it were, I wouldn’t be here.” Evelyn sniffles and presses Peter’s hand to her lips. “I thought he killed you,” she says unexpectedly. “When I saw how deeply you were cut, and how long you slept - I thought you were dead, then. I had just come into the room to make sure you were still alive.”

“For now.” 

Evelyn squeezes his hand with a sob. “Why do you have to talk like that?” Peter sighs and relaxes his fingers. He lifts them to brush the nurse’s cheeks with his fingertips.

“I have to tell you something,” he says gravely. “I have to tell you who I am.” Evelyn looks into his eyes. “You don’t have to say a thing, Peter. I’ve read your file; I watch the news. I know exactly who you are.”

“Then why are you being so kind to me? Don’t you hate me for what I did in London?” 

Evelyn snorts. She presses Peter’s bound hand between hers in an effort to warm him. 

“First of all, it’s my job. Nurses aren’t all embittered battleaxes, taking out their frustration on their patients. Second, I don’t believe a bloody word that Beck bloke says. That he truly expects the world to believe that you were so jealous of him you’d stage an attack with massive casualties...well, let’s just say he isn’t the brightest crayon in the box.”

“Wait a second. Earlier you said _‘I thought he’d killed you.’_ If you mean Beck, how did you know it was him?” Peter pulls his hand away from her and rubs it across his mouth, the chains clinking. 

“I know because it’s all over the telly. That Beck faked his own death, that he’s slandered you and kidnapped you. I said that whatever happened before is your business, and I mean that.”

Peter grips the side rail. “I can’t get what he’s done out of my head. I’m afraid things will never get better for me. I almost wish Beck had killed me. Maybe he’s out there now, biding his time. Maybe I should just go ahead and finish the job he started.”

“No!” Evelyn whispers in horror. “Beck is under armored guard. He’s used up all of his magical mojo and has no money to buy more. He is a wanted felon in the UK, Norway, and the United States. Captain Britain himself is on the way here to make positive identification of his nephew’s body. Beck is going to be taken into S.H.I.E.L.D.’s custody.”

“He’ll still find a way out. You should go now, if you want to be safe.”

“Safe!” Evelyn scoffs. “Do you think I’m so selfish I’d leave you alone? It seems to me I’d be safer in a room with Spider-Man than without.”

“If you say so. Whether you’re here or not, I’ll die soon enough. Hopefully sooner rather than later.” 

“Please don’t talk like that. You will not die!” Evelyn says fiercely. “You’re only going to be here until you can be taken into protective custody. Beck can’t come near you, he can’t hurt you again. I swear to God, I won’t let him.”

Peter stares at her and closes his eyes as if he sees something he can’t bear. 

He shakes his head and sits up, pressing his free hand to his stomach with a low groan. He bows his head, and when he lifts it, he looks helpless and frightened. “Evelyn, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill me, or he’ll take me again, and then I might as well be dead.”

Evelyn’s eyes blur with tears. “I told you, I won’t let that happen.”

“How will you stop him?” 

When she fails to respond, Peter sits down and pulls the sheet up to his chest. “In case I don’t see you again, thank you for all you’ve done.”

Peter falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Evelyn" is a supporting OC and is not based on any character in the MCU or Marvel comics. She was inspired by and named after the nurse Evelyn Johnson in the 2001 film _Pearl Harbor_.


	34. Bury A Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter meets Brian Braddock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bury a friend, try to wake up...  
> Bury a friend, I wanna end me...  
> What do you want from me? Why don't you run from me?  
> What are you wondering? What do you know?  
> Why aren't you scared of me? Why do you care for me?  
> When we all fall asleep, where do we go?"
> 
> \- Billie Eilish

“So, you’re the boy.” The words are frank and unceremonious. The speaker is a tall, imposing man dressed all in black. Black undershirt, black tux and tie, black cordovans, black horn rimmed glasses. Even the expression on his face is a mix of grief, and rank black fury. It’s hard for Peter not to feel a twinge of fear in the crosshairs of the man’s stare.

“Yes, hello,” Peter says softly. “My name is Peter Parker.” He extends his free hand. The man gives it a reluctant, limp shake and lets go. “I’m well aware of who you are, boy. As you may have surmised, my name is Brian Braddock. I am Billy’s uncle. Hello,” he adds as an afterthought.

Peter nods and begins to twiddle his thumbs, unsure of what to add. It’s a painful, dreary business. Will has been gone for eight hours. Properly identified by his uncle, he is now being embalmed. 

His casket and burial suit have been chosen. His funeral will be held at 2:00 this afternoon, at the chapel at Braddock Manor in the Essex countryside. It’s the only same-day funeral Peter has ever heard of.

And he won’t be there to see it. “Terribly sorry,” Brian says, as if he’s apologizing for bumping into someone at the shops. “It’s going to be a very small, family affair, you understand. Just myself, my sister, and so on.”

“Your sister?” Peter’s interest is piqued. “Will never mentioned having an aunt.” He’d never mentioned much of anything about his past, really. He’d promised to tell Peter more about himself someday, but he'd never had the chance.

“Yes, well, it’s a bit complicated. Betsy is my sister - my twin sister. But she’s not Billy’s aunt, and I am not his uncle. He calls - called - me “Uncle Brian” out of respect, and due to our age difference. But we are cousins. His father and mine were first cousins.”

“Oh.” Peter nods his head again. He stops twiddling his thumbs. It seems disrespectful. 

The things he’s wanted to know - who Will’s parents were, how he got his powers, how he was brought back from the dead, if and what he saw _‘on the other side’_ \- can now be known.

The answers are within his grasp. Brian Braddock appears to be amenable and open to disclosing any information he wants to know. 

But now, with Will on a frigid slab in a mortuary, Peter no longer cares to know anything. Brian senses his apathy. 

“In case you wanted to know, Beck survived your improvised neck jab. You seem to have somehow missed all the arteries. He has been detained by S.H.I.E.L.D. He will be returned to our dimension of Earth-833, where he will stand trial for Billy’s murder. He will in all likelihood live out the rest of his days in HM Prison Belmarsh in London.”

His face falls. “He will not be charged for the crimes he has committed here. Neither for defrauding the public, nor for what he has done to you.” Peter looks up sharply. His temple starts to throb, the thin blue vein draws taut. “It makes no difference to me,” he says vacantly.

“Obviously it does.” Brian sits in a chair by the bed. “If I could have it my way, the bloody bastard would hang. For what he’s done to you, and to Billy. Damn shame, really, that the UK’s done away with capital punishment. Years before I was even born, mind,” he adds upon seeing Peter’s raised eyebrow.

“You know,” Brian continues, “In this case I wish we could go back to the way capital punishment was done in the old days. I speak of the days of my ancestors, hundreds of years ago in _'Merrie Olde England.'_ They knew then how to handle murderers. Take them out to Tower Hill and chop their heads off with an ax, in front of whoever wanted to come see the show. But I expect Beck would be beheaded on Tower Green, in private, being the rich little poofter he is.”

Brian burps and holds his head. “Christ, I’m sorry to blather on. Might have stopped in a pub for a pint or two after I went to see about Billy.” He sniffles and roughly wipes his eyes. 

“He was such a good lad. So kind and tenderhearted. It was a mistake to try to train it out of him. But it was the way I was brought up, and I just passed along what I thought was right. I haven’t seen him since he finished boarding school. Two years ago. Two bloody years, and now I’ll never see him alive again.”

Brian’s voice breaks. He sniffs and clears his throat before looking over at Peter. “I know you didn’t know him long,” he mumbles. “Less than 2 weeks, from the time you first met him - under his Norwegian alias - to last night. It really wasn’t long at all. Yet you risked your life in an effort to save his.”

There is no question in the statement, implicit or otherwise. But Peter still feels the need to explain. “Will was kind to me. He saved my life, more than once. Even when I wasn’t sure I wanted to be saved. Even though I’m still not sure I want to carry on.”

Brian leans toward Peter. He scratches his chin thoughtfully and takes in Peter’s bleak, haggard countenance. He stares at Brian listlessly, without blinking. There’s nothing there anymore. In the 10 minutes since they’ve met, the last remnants of Peter’s willpower have died.

17 years old to the day, and he truly does not care if he lives or dies. His expression is one Brian has seen in the faces of refugees and human trafficking victims, of war-weary soldiers in the line of duty.

“Peter.” Brian touches his shoulder. He finally blinks once, twice. Brian murmurs a quiet “Thank you” and solemnly stands up.

He has some calls to make.


	35. No Greater Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

When Brian Braddock leaves, Peter falls asleep, half hoping he never wakes again. Soon after he closes his eyes, he is gently shaken awake. When he opens his eyes again, he yelps and begins to bawl.

Happy hugs him and kisses his forehead. “Thank God,” he says. “I’d just about lost all hope.” Tears glisten in his eyes. 

Peter sniffles and rubs his eyes. “Happy, is it really you? If it is, tell me something only you would know.”

“Alright. I swear to God, Peter, nobody knows this besides Tony and myself. Your Christmas present from Tony last year was a brown kangaroo onesie. He wrote a note that said, ` _Now you can’t complain when I call you Underoos. Wear these next time I invite you to the penthouse for a sleepover. You’re a great kid, P. Love, T.”_

Peter laughs hysterically. He laughs until his sides ache, and Happy’s brow furrows in concern. “It really is you!” Peter crows. He sobs and shivers and slobbers as Happy gently wipes the spit and snot from his face with his monogrammed handkerchief.

“S-sorry,” Peter sputters when he has the breath to speak. “It’s so good to see you. I never thought I’d see you again!”

“Me too, buddy. I want you to know, though, we’ve been searching for you high and low since that rat bastard took you.”

“We?” Peter’s voice is light and airy, not quite hopeful but at least with a semblance of hope. “Your aunt and me,” Happy explains. “I called in Fury, and he said he had just the guy for the job. A freelancer who’d already had that bastard under surveillance in Norway for almost a year.”

Happy can’t bring himself to say Beck’s name. Even referring to him as ‘that bastard’ seems too good for him. He spits and feels his blood pressure rise a bit every time he refers to him.

Peter stares at Happy in disbelief. “A freelancer in Norway. So Will did intend to rescue me, all along.” Peter bursts into tears anew. Happy hands him the handkerchief. Peter twists it in his hands and lets his tears flow freely.

“Will Braddock saved me,” he says. “What did Fury tell you about him?”

“Nothing, really. Who is he?”

Peter takes a deep breath. “I can tell you who he _was_.” Happy’s eyes widen at Peter’s use of the past tense. “He was a lot like me. He _was_ me, in a way. He was the Spider-Man of another dimension: Earth-833.”

Happy looks less surprised by this than Peter supposed he would. It takes a moment for him to remember that Happy has worked for Stark Industries at least as long as he’s been alive. He knows a few things, because he’s seen a few things. The existence of the multiverse is not quite as shocking to him as it would be for others.

Peter practically vomits the next words. “Beck murdered him - _twice_. It turns out he was hired by some rich weirdos to kill him. They gave him enough money from that to fund his whole scheme. Will was brought back to life with some kind of mystical woo, and then last night Beck broke into Will’s house and tried to kidnap me again. Will died protecting me.”

Happy exhales sharply. The poor kid can’t catch a break. He hasn’t known this Will Braddock kid long, but he’s one more light snuffed out, one more loss to add to Peter’s abundant supply. Happy recalls late-night conversations with Tony, his robe saturated in tears and spilled bourbon, his eyes glassy as he ranted and wailed about losing Peter.

A few times, he’d had to hide the Colt M1911 that was an heirloom from Tony’s grandfather Robert, a WWI veteran. Happy locked the pistol in the glovebox of Howard’s Aston Martin DB5, the place he was sure Tony would never think to look. Happy sat with Tony faithfully, night after night, and helped him through the darkest period of his life.

Now, he will do the same for Peter. Happy dares not think that this _annus horribilis_ is the darkest period of Peter’s life. He dares not hope that things will get better, nor is he naive enough to opine that things can’t get worse. As he’s learned, things can always get worse. The only thing to do is to let things be. Happy feels like a failure, like he somehow allowed Beck to abduct Peter, even though he couldn’t possibly have done anything to stop him.

That was the hardest part. Happy realizes now that he would have done anything to save Peter, including risking his own life. Tony had realized it, and he had. As far as the world is concerned, Iron Man gave his life to save them all. Happy may be the only one who knows that he gave his life solely for Peter, and he did so gladly. Because…

“He loved you.” Peter sniffs and blows his nose. “Yeah, I guess he did, huh?”

“He sure did, kid.” It’s a shame Happy never got to meet this Will Braddock. It would be enlightening, to say the least. As much pain as he’s endured already, Peter still has a long road ahead of him. But Happy will be with him every step of the way. On that note,

“May will be so glad to see you. She was so happy when she heard we found you that she passed out.” Peter cries again and wipes his nose on the handkerchief. He titters and smiles sheepishly. “Oops. I’m ruining your handkerchief. Sorry.”

Happy grins and winks. “No worries. It can be washed, after all.” Happy’s attention shifts to Peter’s hand cuffed to the side rail. He takes Peter’s hand and frowns at the welts on his wrist. “It’s about time we got you out of this.” From the indignation in his tone, Peter expects Happy to break the cuffs with his bare hands.

Instead, he pushes the call light. He holds Peter’s hand until Evelyn comes into the room. “It’s nice to see you awake,” she says cheerfully. She nods at Happy politely and turns toward Peter. “What can I do for you, Peter?”

Peter shrugs, and Happy takes over. “Ma’am, if it’s not too much trouble, can you page whatever police officer’s in charge and have them take this damn cuff off? And then Peter needs a sponge bath, ASAP. No offense, kid,” he says aside to Peter, “but you’re pretty rank.”

“None taken,” Peter says. “It has been a couple days since I’ve had a shower. I want the lavender scented soap, if that’s alright, Evelyn.” Evelyn smiles and touches his cheek. “Sure thing, Peter. I’ll be right back.”

“Huh. You are one lucky kid, Peter. I mean, no offense, your choice of lavender scent over something like cedarwood is a little...unmanly. But, you get to have a hot redhead give you a bath. It’s like something out of my wildest dreams, or at least my search history on Pornhub.”

“Again, none taken.” Peter bites his lip to keep from cracking a smile. Happy is a lot like Tony in many respects. His readiness to apologize is not one of them. On the occasions that he hurt Peter’s feelings over the approximate year of their relationship, Tony’s apologies were a lot more subtle.

He’d used action instead of words to redress his transgressions. A squeeze on the shoulder, a pat on the back. A peck on the cheek, followed by a pinch and a threat of violence if he told ‘one of the guys.’ 

God knew, Tony Stark was a rock, he was a man’s man with a reputation to uphold. He certainly couldn’t be seen hugging Peter, God forbid if anybody on the team saw him sitting on the couch, Peter laying down and resting his head in Tony’s lap.

Happy snaps his fingers to catch Peter’s attention. “Sorry, I spaced out for a minute.” Peter yawns and shakes his head. “Ugh, I don’t know why I’m so tired. I slept the whole day away, pretty much.”

Yeah, Happy thinks to himself. Getting into a fight with and stabbed by a hardened criminal twice your age will tire you out. Add to that the stress of seeing your friend murdered, and the rush of adrenaline from stabbing your assailant back.

He’s seen the police report. When Evelyn returns with the soap and basin, Happy excuses himself. On the elevator ride down to the lobby, he breaks down.


	36. Give Me One Reason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter says goodbye to Beck.

“Are you sure about this?” Happy frowns as he parks the car. 

“I’m sure,” Peter says brusquely. He gets out of the car and shuts the door before Happy can try to talk him out of it. Happy has tried for the duration of the 2 1⁄2 hour ride from Bristol to dissuade Peter from going, at least from going in by himself. But Beck has specifically asked for Peter alone.

He’s in Belmarsh on remand until he goes on trial in December. Brian Braddock has pulled some strings to ensure that Peter can return to New York with Happy, post haste. He has a flight out of Heathrow in a few hours. By this time tomorrow, he will be home. As he walks through the prison doors, Peter feels so lightheaded he thinks he might faint.

He checks in at the front desk, sort of. More like he’s waved through, as soon as he says his name. In a matter of hours, his Social Security card has been resurrected, his identity restored. He has been made Brian’s ward temporarily. Peter takes deep, centering breaths to calm himself as he walks down the corridor to Beck’s cell block.

And there he is. He smiles when he sees Peter, and waves, as if he’s trying to get his attention. The vein in Peter’s temple throbs. He sends up a silent prayer for strength as he sits down and picks up the phone. On the other side of the bullet-proof panel, Beck does the same. 

“Hello, Peter."

He grunts in reply. Beck should be grateful he’s even agreed to come. “That’s not very polite,” Beck chortles. “I’m away from you a few weeks, and all your manners go down the shitter. I wonder how Billy would feel about that.”

“Let’s get one thing straight.” Peter leans his forehead against the glass. His nostrils flare with each breath. “You don’t bring him up, _ever_. I don’t want his name in your mouth. That includes nicknames, insults, et cetera. _You don’t deserve to say his name_.”

Beck bares his teeth in an ugly leer. “OK, fair enough. So, I guess this is my new setup. For a while, anyway. You like it?”

Peter grunts again. He leans his head on his hand, holding the phone so tightly with the other his knuckles whiten. 

“What do you want, Beck?” he cuts to the chase. “You have 9 minutes left, so quit your bullshitting and get to the point.”

“Alright, alright. There’s no need for such ugly language. You shouldn’t defile that pretty little mouth of yours. Ah, I’ve missed that pretty little mouth of yours...I miss the sight of it wrapped around my cock.”

Peter shudders. Beck’s face is right up against the glass. Peter backs away a few inches. 

“Oh come on, kid. You know you liked it. You couldn’t get enough of it not that long ago. I’d pump so deep in you I almost choked you. And every time I’d shoot a salty, sweaty load, you’d swallow it all down. Like it was a milkshake.”

“Ugh.” Peter gags and swallows the bile rising in his throat. Just a few more minutes of this. He can handle it. And then, God willing and the creek don’t rise, he’ll never have to see or deal with this creep again.

“Do you have anything else you want to say to me? Something more substantial than smutty locker room talk?” The way Beck’s eyes glistened as he talked about shooting a load reminds Peter of Flash Thompson, blathering on about his latest hookup. 

Beck frowns, chastened. “More substantial, like what? Wait, don’t tell me you want me to write you a poem to profess my love?”

“No, God.” Peter rolls his eyes. He wants to flip him off, but settles for banging his fist against the partition. He hits it hard and feels the bruise that will form later.

The bruises he has made on Beck’s face have long since healed. The wounds he has made on the sides of his neck with the knife and fountain pen are covered with grimy gauze bandages.

Beck turns his head, lets Peter look. “Admiring your handiwork? I’m sure they told you that you missed all the veins and arteries somehow. The doctors couldn’t figure out how.”

“Are you asking me? I don’t have an answer for you. In that moment, it was kill or be killed.”

“Nonsense. I could never kill you, Peter. Not after all we’ve been through.”

“What the hell? You tried to kill me at least twice back in June.”

“Uh-huh, but that was before our romantic getaway in Norway. And hey, it wasn’t personal, Peter. I had an objective, and you just happened to get in the way.”

Peter cringes at Beck’s characterization of their Norwegian experience as a ‘getaway.’ “Why did you have to take me away from my aunt? Why couldn’t you have just left me alone?”

Beck’s features soften. His eyes shimmer as he speaks. “That’s where it gets personal. I don’t know what it was, Peter, but from the first time I saw you, there was a spark. I just had to have you. There’s no other explanation.”

“You just had to have me.” Peter sighs and rubs his forehead. “That’s all there was to it? You kidnapped me, plied me with drugs to control me. You made me your whore, and you raped me...because you had to have me.”

“That’s right. I didn’t do it because you were Stark’s sidekick, or because some interdimensional fatcats had a bounty on your head. I wanted you, Peter, and I got you. You struggled and fought me, but deep down, you know you wanted to be gotten. I didn’t do anything to you that you didn’t ask for.”

Peter laughs. He holds the phone to his mouth and murmurs the last words he’ll say to Quentin Beck: “Fuck you.”

He hangs up with 5 minutes left in the call.


	37. Hello, Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter goes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Isn't it lovely, all alone?  
> Heart made of glass, my mind of stone  
> Tear me to pieces, skin and bone  
> Hello, welcome home."
> 
> \- Billie Eilish & Khalid

Aunt May is waiting for him at the end of the tarmac. Peter smiles and steps into her arms. She holds him close and sobs.

She covers his face with kisses, leaving magenta tinted lipstick stains.

“Peter!” she cries. “Oh baby, you’re home! Thank God.”

“I’m home.” Peter turns to kiss her cheek. “Thank God.”

His voice is hollow as he speaks. He is subdued and even sullen, a complete contrast to what he has anticipated.

In the 6 weeks they’ve been apart, Peter has imagined their reunion. 

Aunt May has reacted as he thought she would.

Expressive and extroverted, she lives up to the stereotypes commonly associated with her Italian maternal ancestors.

She is all he has left, and is essentially all he is living for.

Peter doesn’t know how he will be received by MJ and Ned. The matters that had seemed so important to them at the start of summer - playing video games, keeping up with the latest trends in culture and pop music, trying to impress their crushes - now seem superficial and trivial to Peter.

As he holds Aunt May in his embrace, he can’t think of anything in particular to say to her. 

She is hyperfocused on him, and cannot seem to stop kissing him and crying. Peter hates his evident lack of emotion. He has run out of tears.

“I love you,” he says rotely. Aunt May draws back and looks at him, taking him in.

Peter has gained weight, but he looks hardened and haunted, a shadow of his former self. 

She can’t recognize her sweet, goofy, trusting nephew in this solemn, cynical young man.

“I know, baby,” she murmurs. She wipes the lipstick stains from his cheeks with her fingers. “I love you, too. I love you so much, Peter.”

She frames his face and pulls him close to kiss the top of his head.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you. I thought of you every minute of every day. There were days when I wanted to give up. You were the only one who kept me going, Peter.”

“Don’t be sorry, Aunt May. There was nothing you could have done. I didn’t think of you every day, but whenever I felt like giving up, you were the one who kept me going, too.” 

Aunt May sniffles and hugs him again. “Are you sure you’re ready? You know the minute we go into the terminal, you’re going to be swamped. That asshole from _The Daily Bugle_ is the ringleader. I can have Happy take you home in the Quinjet.”

“Thanks, May. Sooner or later, I’ll have to face them. I want to go ahead and get it out of the way.”

Peter takes Aunt May’s hand and they stroll leisurely toward the concourse.

The thick rubber soles of their flip-flops thwack against the tarmac.

Peter squeezes Aunt May’s hand and takes a deep breath. 

He opens the door and is inundated with sonorous voices and the flashes of dozens of cameras.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks. Sincerest thanks to everyone who has read, commented/reviewed, and left kudos. 
> 
> I truly had no idea when I started writing that this story would develop a semblance of a plot and take on a life of its own. 
> 
> Thanks again!


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